


sell your soul, not your whole self

by overflow



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Eating Disorders, M/M, Pining, beautiful boy, i am angst-monger and i love sadness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 19:47:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 47,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13934034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overflow/pseuds/overflow
Summary: He'd never say this out loud, but he feels like he's dying.Timothée has to lose twenty-five pounds for Beautiful Boy.  This has unforeseen consequences.





	1. Chapter 1

It claws at him like some perverted distortion of a hungry dog, gnawing at its own leg in desperation, groaning and whining until you pity it enough to throw it a bone.Ugly, skeletal, eyes black, pupils dilated, unsteady on its feet, contorted and crying and painful.

The hunger is the dog, Timothée thinks.Or perhaps, he himself is the dog.

He doesn’t really understand how it got this way.He expected this experience to challenge him, but he didn’t expect it to _hurt_ him.He thought it would be good for him. _Beautiful Boy_ was a great opportunity, a lucky break, for such a young actor.He’s learning, he’s growing, he’s challenging himself like he knows he should.If you starve yourself, you win an Oscar.It’s the way it goes.He just didn’t know it would be painful like this. He didn’t know he would be googling the calories of a single almond, shivering in the middle of the summer, gripping stairway handrails to fight off dizzy spells, sitting down halfway through the stairs to his apartment to catch his breathe.Crying at night from the hunger pains.Guzzling coffee in an attempt to satiate his appetite for a few hours.Sitting down on the floor in the middle of his apartment out of pure exhaustion, meaning to close his eyes for a moment, and then waking up hours later.

Timothée wants this, he wants this so bad — the _tough_ roles, the meaty roles, the ones that make people take you seriously — and yet;

He’s afraid.Afraid that this will hurt him too much, change him in some irrevocable way, scar his body and his brain forever.He’s heard of people who become so underweight, who eat so few calories, that their bodies, in quiet but intense desperation, begin to metabolize their own hearts.Begin to eat the muscle in their own brain.And they can recover, they can gain the weight back, but their hearts are a bit weaker, their brains a bit slower.And for having starved themselves for just a portion of their lives, they are forever changed: a little bit dumber, a little bit frailer.

Timothée’s too fearful to ask a doctor about any of this. _It’s a dumb concern,_ he thinks, _my body can’t possibly disintegrate that quickly._

He’d never say this out loud, but he feels like he’s dying.

***

It’s 2:00 AM on a Tuesday, and Timothée wants to text Armie.

Armie texts him often, although the frequency has slowly decreased as time has gone by.Timothée tries not to let it bother him.He knows that it’s natural for people to grow apart when they don’t see each other often.He’s sure that things will return to normal once _Call Me By Your Name_ is released.But he can’t shake the feeling that he’s being forgotten, abandoned.That fear pools up and hardens low in his stomach, so he can never forget that it’s there.

Still, the texts come a couple times a week.Phone calls every couple weeks.Armie asks lots of questions: _How are you?How is filming?Is it going well?Are you doing well?_ He’s always been protective, always treated him like a baby brother.Timothée resents it, though he knows it’s impossible to change.Armie never wanted him before, and he certainly wouldn’t want him the way he is now: frail, sickly, ugly.

Timothée never answers his questions honestly, because he’s not sure Armie wants him to.Armie has a wife and kids to worry about, he doesn’t want to hear about some twenty-one year old who can’t keep his shit together.He contacts Timothée for lighthearted, funny conversation, a few anecdotes, confirmation that they’re not living completely separate lives, and maybe an _I miss you._ Timothée can give him that.Timothée _loves_ to give him that.And a lie is far easier to spit out than the truth is.

But tonight, with emptiness ripping through his stomach so painfully that he can’t fall asleep, he wants to tell someone.He wants, needs, to tell Armie.Maybe he can understand.Maybe he can tell him what to do.

Without thinking, he just sends: _Armie_

Armie’s response is immediate: _what’s up_

Timothée spends ten minutes coming up with what he’s going to say.He wants to confess, but he’s afraid.He wants an out, some way to say, _never mind, just joking, just being dramatic._ He wants to be able to claim that if he changes his mind.

He sends: _i think this movie is going to kill me._

Armie replies: _lol, you're such a drama queen._

So he’s interpreted it as sarcastic melodrama.Timothée guesses there was a part of him that wanted that.That doesn’t make it any less disappointing.

Timothée drops the phone next to him as tears begin to well up in his eyes.He tries to figure out exactly what he wanted from Armie.For him to see past his lies?Maybe for the moment.But he certainly doesn’t want to deal with the consequences of Armie knowing. He certainly doesn’t want him to worry, or for him to try and solve the problem.Telling Armie would mean that he would have to make some sort of commitment to fix himself, and he won’t take that responsibility, not now.Still, a bit of comfort for one night would be nice.

Finally, Timothée understands: he wants Armie to know, and then to forget tomorrow.He shuts his eyes against the darkness, trying to block out the world.His head aches.

He hears the text notification sound a few times, but he doesn’t open his eyes to look.He doesn’t want to hear Armie’s jokes, he doesn’t want to hear him change the subject.He’s too exhausted to fake everything anymore.

The phone rings, and it strikes Timothée that Armie may worry if he doesn’t answer.Fuck.He should never have said anything.He answers the phone, puts it on speaker, and flops back against the pillow, shutting his eyes again.He doesn’t say anything.

“Timmy?” Armie asks.

He takes a moment.“Yeah,” he responds, his voice quiet, weaker than he intended.

“What’s going on?” Armie asks.

“Nothing,” Timothée replies.He knows he’s not convincing, and he feels awful for it, but he can’t summon up the energy to any better.Some actor.

“What’s wrong?” Armie tries again.

“Nothing,” Timothée repeats.He can hear cars passing outside, and he thinks about who’s in them, where they’re going, and why they’re out so late.Do they have husbands and wives to go home to?Friends and family?

“Why didn’t you answer my texts?”

“I’m just tired.”

“You texted me first.”

“Sorry,” Timothée says, not sure how else to respond.

“Don’t be,” Armie says.He sounds confused, concerned.Maybe a bit distracted.“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Timothée says.“I’m just stressed.I was being dramatic.”

“You seem upset.”

“I’m good,” Timothée answers, but his voice cracks.And just like that, it’s over: Armie knows.

“Talk to me,” Armie begs.

“I can’t,” Timothée whispers.

“You can.Tell me what’s going on.Let me help you.”

“You can’t help me with this,” Timothée says.

“Just tell me, I can try.”

Timothée sighs.“This movie is hard.I miss you, and I miss the way things were in Crema.”

“Listen, Timmy,” Armie sighs, “That was a special case.It’ll be hard to find another movie that’s like that.You can’t hold everything you do to that standard.You’ll just get upset.”

And Timothée is suddenly, irrationally, angry.He _knows_ all of this.He wasn’t expecting _Beautiful Boy_ to be like _Call Me By Your Name._ He knew it would be different, he isn’t upset because the experience isn’t _warm_ enough.This wasn’t the reaction he wanted.Armie isn’t fucking getting it, and he’s so fucking condescending.

“I didn’t ask for a fucking lecture.If this is the way you’re gonna be then you shouldn’t even ask me—“

“Wait, wait, what?What?Timmy—”

“You’re so fucking patronizing, like I don’t fucking know that.”  
“What are you talking about?I was trying to help?”

“Well you’re not!”

“Jesus Christ, man, what the fuck is going on with you?”

And Timothée has no answer for that, no idea what to say, and he’s so angry but he has nothing that he can scream that won’t give the entire fucking thing away, that won’t make him talk about everything wrong.So he hangs up, rolls over, and screams and sobs into his pillow until his voice is gone and his anger is exhausted and he’s so dehydrated that no more tears can come.

In the morning, the events of the previous night hit Timothée like a rogue wave, so hard he can barely breathe.The shame and embarrassment bubble inside of him like boiling water, and he tries to keep it down but it sears and blisters and pains him beyond his control.He checks his phone, and although there are texts from other people, there’s nothing from Armie.

He thinks about calling him to apologize, but how can he possibly do that?What would he say? _Sorry I screamed at you like a fucking lunatic, i was hungry and exhausted and it made me cranky_? What kind of excuse is that?And Armie would make him talk, god, Armie would make him talk.Ask him what’s wrong, what’s going on, does he need anything.And Timothée would try and resist, try and say _it’s nothing, it’s nothing,_ but Armie would know better and he would plead and plead until Timothée is broken down and crying, admitting everything.

So he puts the phone down and resolves not to say anything.He’ll have to go some time without speaking to Armie, then.He’s stopped speaking to most people, by now.Armie would just be one more, he tells himself, there’s no difference.And yet, it hurts.Just the thought of Armie’s absence pains him much more acutely than anyone else’s has.

Timothée shakes his head.This is the way it needs to be.

In the following weeks, Timothée throws himself into his work.He cuts down on his food intake even more, fasting for days at a time.The pain in his stomach distracts him from his loneliness and the exhaustion knocks him out before he has any time to wallow.

Armie does not contact him.

Timothée begins to understand he may never contact him again.When that realization hits him, he does not eat for three days.The hunger helps.It’s a good distraction.

Somewhere, in the back of his brain, buried under layers of denial and shame is the acute awareness that he is losing control.

He misses Armie terribly.But there’s nothing he can do at this point.If he wanted to apologize, he should have done it immediately after the phone call — it’s too late now.He hates to admit it, because it makes him seem like a weak, cowardly child, but he almost expected that Armie would call or text first, just out of sheer concern.Would want to know what the hell was wrong with him.Would tell him it’s okay, he’s not angry, he’s just worried.

But he never does, and it’s becoming clear that he is, in fact, angry.It’s a fucking nightmare, honestly — he never imagined that he’d ever give Armie any reason to be truly upset with him.

What will happen when their movie is released?How will they interact?What will they say to each other?

He buries his fear.What else can he do with it?


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a Monday afternoon on the second to last week of shooting, it’s raining outside, and Timothée hasn’t eaten in five days. He sits on the staircase of his apartment building, his head in his knees, breathing hard.He was walking up when he suddenly random streaks of light and darkness clouded his vision, his brain suddenly feeling very heavy.He gripped the handrail tight and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to regain some composure and energy and walk up the stairs. _Just a few more steps,_ he thought, _just a few more, then I can sleep._ But he couldn’t conjure up the energy, so he had to sit down to wait for the dizzy spell to pass.

He feels as though he’s stopped losing weight for the role, and has begun doing it for himself.He looks at his emaciated frame in the mirror with perverted satisfaction.It’s a physical benchmark of his progress, of how hard he is willing to work.Even now, even in moments like this, he’s proud.And when he feels as if his brain is falling out of skull, when he feels as if his stomach is rioting and his legs are on strike, there’s no room for loneliness.

It’s been about fifteen minutes, and Timothée knows that if he doesn’t force himself to stand up soon he’ll pass out right here.He just needs a moment…

Just for a second, he wishes Armie were here.He would force Timothée up, grab him around the wrists and pull him to his feet, put a hand on his back and push him up the stairs and then, finally, let him collapse on the bed.But Armie isn’t here, and Armie will most likely never be here again, and he wouldn’t want Armie to see him like this anyway.

“Kid,” someone says, “You alright?”

Timothée looks up, blinks a few times to clear his vision.It’s a cop.“Yeah.I just got… dizzy.”

“Are you sick?” The cop asks.

“No,” Timothée says, “Just tired.”

The cop stares him down.“You’re not… you’re not some kind of druggie, right?”

“What?” Timothée asks, surprised.“No.”

“Listen, I’m not gonna get you in trouble, I just wanna make sure you don’t need help.”

“I don’t do any drugs,” Timothée says firmly.“What makes you think…?”  
“You’re awfully skinny.And you look bad, no offense,” the cop says.

Timothée should be satisfied, really, that he’s thin enough to pass for an addict, seeing as that’s his job right now, but he’s just embarrassed.“I’m an actor,” he says.“I’m playing a meth addict in a movie.I had to lose a lot of weight for the role.”

The cop raises his eye brows.“So you’re doing this to yourself just to be in a movie.”

Timothée grins a little bit — it sounds dumb, when it’s put like that.“Yeah.”

“You live in this building?”  
“Yeah, two floors up.”

The cop holds out a hand, and Timothée takes it.He pulls him up and walks with him up to his apartment, an arm under his shoulder, holding some of his weight.Timothée doesn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed.Fuck it, taking care of people is supposed to be the job of the police, right?Why should he turn it down?

They arrive at his apartment, and before the cop leaves, he looks Timothée dead in the eye and says: “Look after yourself.No role is worth destroying yourself.Eat something.”

Timothée nods, and stumbles inside.Impulsively, numbly, he walks over to his kitchen.There’s not much food there, but he finds a few things.Without even sitting down at the table, begins to eat a piece of bread, chewing it slowly.He finishes it, and then, unsatisfied, goes for another.And another, and another.

He doesn't really event taste the food.

Once he’s eaten all the way through the loaf of bread, he opens up the refrigerator and takes out a large container of yogurt.He grabs a spoon and shovels the entirety of the yogurt into his mouth.From there, he moves on to the frozen meals in his freezer.The chips in the cabinet.Five bananas.An entire jar of peanut butter.

He’s numb, in in some some sort of fugue state.He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but that knowledge seems to take a backseat to some greater sensation that’s overpowering him.He feels as if someone else has entered his body, felt the hunger, and decided to act on it.

He continues eating, even once he feels sick from all the food.He eats until there’s nothing left to eat, and the urge inside of him has been satisfied.Then, slowly, numbly, he walks to his bed to lie down, and begins to cry.

He shouldn’t have done that.He’s just ruined everything he’s been working towards, all of it.All because that fucking cop told him to eat something, and in his weakness, he listened.The anxiety and dread tears through him worse than the hunger ever did, and he hates himself in a distinctly sickening way.He has to find a way to fix this.

Suddenly, he has an idea.It’s crazy, it’s _wrong,_ but how could it be more wrong than what he just did?And just this once…

All the fear and anguish leaves him, and he feels completely serene.He stands up and walks over to the bathroom.He kneels over the toilet and sticks his fingers into his mouth, pushing back as far as he can reach.Nothing happens.He shoves them back a bit further — still, nothing.He wiggles them.

It happens so fast that he doesn’t have time to pull his hand away, and the vomit sprays all over his arm and back onto his face.It splatters all over the toilet and the wall, only a small portion of it landing in the toilet.He should be disgusted, but he feels nothing at all.He can tell there’s still more in his stomach, so he crams his fingers back in his mouth, again and again until he’s just dry heaving over the toilet.

He scoots back on his butt and leans against the wall, closing his eyes and tilting his head back, breathing.All the guilt seeps out of him like a wet rag being wrung out, and he smiles with the knowledge that he has successfully erased the events of the day.He stays there like that for a few minutes.

Then he inhales deeply, and the smell of the vomit hits him.He opens his eyes and brings his hands to his face, and feels the undigested food and bile on his cheeks and forehead.He stands up and looks in the mirror, and he sees an emaciated boy with vomit on his face, in his hair, staining his shirt and dripping down his body.And that quickly, the reality of what he’s done hits him.

In that moment, he knows he has completely lost control.

Without shifting his body or his gaze, he begins to cry.He stares at himself as he breaks down, and as the quiet cries turn into loud, wrecking sobs, he sinks to the floor and pulls his knees into his chest.He curls into a fetal position, and cries for everything he has lost.

His health.His sanity.His body.His mind.And, most devastatingly, himself.

Desperate and unsure what else to do, he feels around his pants for his phone.He opens up his contact list, and his finger hovers over the call button.There is a large part of him that does not want to do this.But fuck his pride, fuck everything got him here, he’s calling Armie.

As the phone rings, it strikes Timothée that Armie may not pick up.That he may purposely ignore his call, or may answer and be irritated that Timothée is calling him like this after weeks of radio silence.The thought brings a new, fresh set of sobs to surface, so loud that he can barely hear when Armie picks up.

“Timmy?Hello?Timmy?” Armie’s asking.

“ _Armie,_ ” Timothée cries, and _fuck,_ he sounds wrecked.

“Timmy?What’s going on?”

And Timothée doesn’t know how to answer, he just keeps sobbing. His breath hitches, quick inhales and exhales between sobs.The air doesn’t get much deeper than his throat.

“Breathe,” Armie tells him.

Timothée tries to take a deep breath, but a sob interrupts him.God, the smell is awful, he’s repulsive, he’s—

“Timothée.Come on.Deep breaths,” Armie instructs.

“I can’t,” Timothée gasps out.“I can’t, I can’t, oh my god, I’m gonna die—“

“You’re not going to die.Okay?Come on.Close your eyes.You control your breathing, your breathing doesn’t control you.”

Timothée nods, though Armie can’t see it, and closes his eyes.He counts to ten, and tries to catch his breath. _I control my breathing.I control my breathing.I control my breathing._ He tells it to himself until he can breathe regularly, with sobs between every few breaths.

“Okay,” Timothée whispers.“I’m breathing.”

“Good,” Armie tells him, voice gentle.“What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry,” Timothée cries, and he means it.He’s sorry for yelling.He’s sorry for avoiding Armie for weeks.He’s sorry for destroying himself, he’s sorry for making himself sick, he’s sorry for all of it.

“What?” Armie asks.“Timothée, is that why you’re so upset?Because of our fight?”

Timothée doesn’t know how to answer that.“Are you angry with me? I’m so sorry.”

“Of course I’m not angry with you.”

“I—but—,” Timothée says, tripping over his words in confusion.Armie’s not angry?“But I yelled at you!”

“You were upset, and you snapped,” Armie says, speaking like he would to a small child.“You’re young.It happens.”

“Then… why didn’t you text or call?” Timothée asks.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.I just… I thought you would call when you were ready.”

That information silences Timothée.He could have spoken to Armie this whole time?He hadn’t been exiled?He didn’t need to come crawling back, begging for forgiveness?

“Timothée.Why did you call me?What’s wrong?” Armie presses.

“I can’t say it,” Timothée says, his attention back to the present.“It’s awful.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m sick.There’s something wrong with me,” Timothée says.“I just did something really bad.”

“What did you do?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Yes you can.You can tell me anything.”

“Not this.I can’t make myself say it.”

“Timmy…”

“I feel like I’m dying,” Timothée admits in a fervent whisper.“I think I’m going to die.”

Armie is silent for a moment.“You’re scaring me,” he says finally.

“I’m scared too.”

“Please tell me what’s going on,” Armie pleads.

“Come to New York.Please,” Timothée asks.

“Why can't you tell me what's happening?” Armie asks, "I don't understand, you have to--"

“Please.”

“Timmy, you know I love you, but I don’t know if I can right now…” Armie says slowly, “Please just tell me what’s wrong.Maybe I can help from here.”

And it’s cruel, what Timothée’s doing, tearing him away from his family , but he can’t help it.“ _Please,”_ he begs, “I need you so much.I’m really scared.”

“I can try,” Armie says, noncommittal.

“I’m really scared,” Timothée repeats, not sure how else to convince him.“And there’s no one around I can go to.”

“What about your friends?You’re family?They’re all in New York, right?”Armie asks.

“I stopped talking to all of them,” Timothée mumbles.“Please just come.

“Timmy,” Armie says, sounding pained, “What’s going on?”

Timothée hangs up, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall.At this point, he sees no purpose in continuing the conversation.Armie isn’t coming.Armie won’t come.He is fully alone in this, and as that realization sinks in, he begins to cry again.He leans sideways, curling up into a ball, and sobs so loudly he can barely hear his phone ringing.And he falls asleep like that — fully clothed, unshowered, and covered with his own vomit.

When he finally comes to, there's a text on his phone from Armie:  _booked tickets. getting in tomorrow afternoon_


	3. Chapter 3

 

Timothée gapes at the message on his phone. _booked tickets. getting in tomorrow._ Tomorrow is now today; Armie is coming today.For a moment, he is overwhelmed with giddy relief—he no longer has to be alone.Soon enough, though, the reality of the situation sets in: he’s still covered in his own sick, there’s vomit all over the bathroom, the apartment is a mess, _he’s_ a mess, and he has shooting today.He gives himself thirty seconds to figure out how to handle this, and then texts back: _i have to shoot today.theres a spare key on top of the door frame of my apartment, let urself in and i’ll see u here after._

After a moment, he adds: _thank you._

Then he sets to work.He cleans up the bathroom first, wiping down the walls and the floor until there are no traces of the night before.Next, he steps into the shower and attempts to wash away the shame of the night before, although he cant quite wriggle out of it the way he hoped.He turns the heat up as high as it goes until he feels like he is boiling alive.He waits until he feels as though his skin has melted off of him and slipped down the drown, and then he turns off the water.When he feels as if he has successfully destroyed the evidence of the previous day, he leaves.

It strikes him that maybe he shouldn’t have called Armie.Maybe he made a mistake in his hysterical state, so desperate for comfort and companionship that he didn’t think through the consequences.And those consequences will be heavy: he’ll have to talk.Armie will worry.Armie will try and help him, under this misconception that Timothée needs help.Armie will, without question, try and make him eat.

Timothée tries to push these thoughts out of his mind.Armie is flying across the country, he reasons, he should be happy to see him.They’ll have a nice time.And maybe that loneliness that constantly chews at him won’t have such sharp teeth.

Throughout the day, the dread begins to leave him and pure, unadulterated excitement sets in.Armie will be waiting for him when he gets home.Armie will make him feel better, he always has.So what if he asks questions?So what if he makes Timothée talk?He’ll find a way out of it.It’s a small price to pay for such an enormous comfort.He’s running on a couple hours of sleep and no food, but walking home, he’s more energetic than he has been in a long time.He takes the stairs two at a time, and by the time he’s at the top, there are stars in his vision.He pushes through it without stopping and walks into his apartment, stopping at the door.

He finds Armie on the couch and gives him a giant smile that Armie doesn’t return.He just stands up from the couch and looks Timothée up and down.It’s a little unnerving; Armie is normally openly elated when he sees Timothée after a long time, but today, his face is unreadable.

Timothée tries not to let it deter him.He’s excited to see Armie, and he isn’t going to let a facial expression ruin that for him.He’s determined not to be that paranoid.He walks to him, fast and direct, trying to ignore his dizziness.He means to hug Armie, but he’s wobbly on his feet and ends up staggering into Armie’s chest.

“Jesus Christ, hey,” Armie says, wrapping his arms around Timothée to hold him upright.

Timothée returns the hug and inhales deeply.His eyes end up just below Armie’s clavicle, and he buries his face there so the bone presses into his eye socket.It feels the same as when he fists his hands and rubs his eyes, has that same relieving effect, except this time Armie is doing it for him.“I’m so happy you’re here,” Timothée mumbles.

“I can tell,” Armie says.He holds Timothée in the hug for a few seconds, rubbing his back with slow, up and down movements over his spine and ribcage.Then, he moves to step back, and Timothée has to force himself to release his grip.Armie looks him up and down and frowns.

“What?” Timothée asks.

“Are you okay?” Armie asks.

“What?” Timothée asks, feigning ignorance.He smiles big.“Yeah.I’m just excited.”

Armie doesn’t buy it — he never does.Timothée doesn’t even know why he’s trying.After last night, after begging Armie to get on a cross-country flight last minute, after sobbing on the phone, telling Armie that he thinks he’s dying… it’s a lost cause.But Timothée can’t give up on it, even if he wanted to.These days, he feels as if someone else is inhabiting his body, calling all the shots while he sits in the passenger seat and screams as the car speeds towards a cliff.

“You don’t look good,” Armie asks.

Timothée looks down, releasing something between a laugh and a huff.“Thanks.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant.It’s just…” He hesitates.“You don’t look healthy.And, when you called last night…”

“I’m fine,” Timothée says, a wooden smile plastered on his face.He’s a shitty liar, and he knows it.

Armie’s face contorts into something strange, maybe even dangerous.His voice is low. “If you’re just going to lie to me, what was the point of me coming here?”

“I—what?” Timothée asks, caught off guard.He wasn’t expecting Armie to want to talk about this so soon, and he certainly wasn’t expecting him to get angry.

“I came here because it seemed like there was something seriously wrong and you needed help.I didn’t come here to have fun, I came here because you said you needed me.But if you won’t even talk to me…” Armie trails off, starting to pace around.Timothée’s heart is suddenly beating hard and fast, in his ears and throat and everywhere else except for between his ribs.Nothing is where it should be, and if Timothée is interpreting this correctly, Armie is threatening to leave.

“I’ll talk to you, I’ll talk to you!” Timothée says desperately.“I just—how long are you here?”

“I was planning on staying until Monday,” Armie says.

Timothée only gets him for two days.Just two days.He blinks a few times, trying to push away the disappointment.“We have time.I’m just exhausted.And I’m excited to see you.Do we have to talk about heavy shit right now?Let’s just relax.”

Armie looks at him for a moment and sighs.Timothée stares at him, trying to look through his face and into his brain, tries to see the processes of his mind.But Armie’s never been an easy read like Timothée is.

“Alright,” he says, his face softening.Timothée can feel the tension slowly trickling out of his body.“But tomorrow, we talk.”

“Of course,” Timothée says, feeling the same as he did in high school when a teacher would give him an extension on an assignment.Out of gratefulness, or maybe just out of love, he walks towards Armie, opening his arms.

“You want _another_ hug?” Armie asks with a laugh, clearly feigning incredulity, and takes Timothée into his arms.

“Well, you interrupted the first one by _talking,”_ Timothée says.

Armie laughs, squeezing Timothée tight.“You’re so tiny.”

Timothée tries not to tense up.“I’m actually normal sized.You’re just a giant.”

Armie moves his arms from around Timothée shoulder blades to around his waist, and lifts him off his feet by a few inches.Timothée, squirming and laughing, kicks Armie in the shins until he lets him free.

“I’m pretty sure you weigh less than Elizabeth.”

Timothée shrugs.“Well, Elizabeth has boobs, so.”

For a moment, he thinks he’s overstepped, but Armie just laughs.

“Plus,” Timothée tacks on, trying to bring it up casually so it won’t be as much of a shock later, “you know I lost weight for this movie.”

“Oh yeah,” Armie says, like he’s forgotten about it.“That’s kinda weird, I feel like you were skinny enough to play a meth addict already.”

Timothée shakes is head.The idea of it is a little frustrating—how many other people would feel the same way?Was all this suffering really even necessary? “I guess not.”

Armie narrows his eyes, but says nothing.Timothée doesn’t know what to make of that.

“I’m starving,” Armie says.“Wanna order dinner?”

“I’m not super hungry,” Timothée says.“Why don’t you order while I shower?”

Armie hesitates, then nods.Timothée can tell he’s worried, but doesn’t know exactly what he should be worried about.It strikes Timothée that Armie probably has no experience with this type of thing, and is probably no better equipped to deal with it than Timothée himself. He goes straight to the bathroom and showers for a while, hoping that the food will be there and half-eaten by the time he’s finished.When he’s done, he realizes he forgot to bring clothes into the bathroom with him, and has to walk out in only a towel.Normally, this wouldn’t bother him, but now, with each rib pressed against his skin, with his hipbones poking out, with his stomach sinking into a crevasse…

He bites the bullet.Armie’s sitting on the couch, the TV on.It doesn’t look like any food has arrived yet.Timothée is shivering somewhat violently, like he always is after most showers these days.Armie smiles at him from across the room, and Timothée smiles back, trying to keep is teeth from clattering so loudly.

“You look like a girl with your hair wet,” Armie muses, “It’s so long.”

“I look like a girl basically all the time,” Timothée shoots back.

Armie opens his mouth to say something, then stops.Slowly, he asks, “does that bother you?”

“No, I don’t mind it.If I wanted to look super macho, I’d get a haircut and start like, going to the gym or something,” Timothée answers honestly.He’s never been particularly masculine in a traditional way, never been a picture of stereotypical, heterosexual manliness, but it isn’t something that upsets him.It’s not who he is, and it’s one of the few things he doesn’t feel insecure about right now.

“Alright, good,” Armie says.“I thought you were insulting yourself for a second, and I was gonna beat you up for it.”

“You were gonna _beat me up?”_ Timothée laughs.

“Well, if someone else was mean to you, it’s how I’d react.So if you’re mean to yourself, I’d have to beat you up too.I don’t make the rules, man, sorry,” Armie replies, witty as ever.

Timothée smiles, soaking in the feeling he’s been aching for—being loved, being protected, being looked after.It’s his own fault he doesn’t have it these days, he knows, but it doesn’t mean he misses it any less.“I should go get dressed,” he says, turning away.

Timothée lives in an studio, so there’s nowhere to hide to change his clothes, unless he wants to build awkward tension and go to the bathroom to do it.He’s aware that Armie is watching him change, watching him as he drops his towel to reveal his small, emaciated frame. He tries not to let it bother him.Timothée pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt.When he’s still cold, he pulls on an oversized, unbuttoned flannel.It doesn’t help all that much.

“When do you get to gain the weight back?” Armie asks, voice strange.

“When we’re done filming, I guess,” Timothée replies, shrugging.At one point, the idea of being able to eat normally excited him, and he counted down the days until he could eat three meals a day.But now, it seems so strange and surreal, and he can’t imagine himself doing that.He feels as if he never ate normally at all, that it was just someone who looked like him and talked like him who did.As if it took place in another life.He doesn’t know if he wants to go back to that.The hunger helps him, it calms him down, it focuses him, it empowers him.He feels like a tyrannical king ruling over his body, ignoring his stomach’s riots and protests.He was never cruel, growing up, and it’s exciting to be cruel now.

Besides, he’s not hurting anyone who actually matters.

Timothée shuffles over to the couch to sit down, and leans his entire body against Armie.Armie wraps an arm over his shoulder and rubs his arm up and down.

“You cold?” Armie asks.

Timothée nods.Armie pulls him in tighter so that he’s comfortably tucked underneath him, and then grabs the throw from the back of the couch and wraps it around the two of them.Timothée smiles and turns his head into Armie’s shoulder, humming a bit.Armie leans his head on top of Timothée’s, and they stay like that until the food arrives.

Armie is the one who answers the door and pays, since it’s his food, and then comes back to the couch to set everything up on the coffee table.He opens the containers of Chinese food, and Timothée has to convince himself that the smell is making him nauseous instead of hungry.He wishes he was like one of those girls in those movies, the ones who did this correctly, easily, prettily.Their vomit lands strictly in the toilet, not all over the room, their gauntness makes them beautiful, not fragile and feeble and even uglier than they were before.  _Food doesn't even taste good anymore_ _,_ they say, _I don't even want it, it's so easy_ _._ And everyone compliments them on their lean, beautiful frame, and they walk around like nothing is wrong.

Timothée doesn’t understand why he doesn’t get to be like them.Maybe no one does, not in real life.

Armie offers him food, and Timothée politely declines.Still shivering, he leans against Armie again, trying to take in his body heat.Armie shoots him a concerned look, probably unnerved by the clinginess, and Timothée smiles back.

“C’mon, Timmy,” Armie says, “Eat at least a little.”

“I’m really not hungry.”

“Just a bite.”

“I don’t really like this stuff anyway.”

“Timmy, please.Just a bite.”

Timothée looks around the table for something that has the least amount of calories.His eyes land on a container of white rice.Carefully making sure not to take too much, Timothée scoops at it with his spoon and plops it in his mouth.It feels good going down, at least physically.Timothée wishes it didn’t.

Armie gives him a smile for his efforts, and that doesn’t make it better, but it helps.They curl up on the couch together, watching television until Timothée is yawning loudly against Armie’s arm.

“You’re a baby,” Armie says, smiling.“It’s only eleven.”

Timothée grins.“I’ve been getting tired earlier, these days,” Timothée says.

Armie stands up, takes Timothée around the wrists and pulls him to his feet.They climb into bed, Timothée still shivering.He stays put on his side of the bed, suddenly aware of how clingy he has been the entire evening, but Armie’s pulls him into his arms.They haven’t cuddled like this since Crema.

“God, why are you so cold?” Armie asks, pulling Timothée in tighter.

“Dunno,” Timothée mumbles into Armie’s chest.

For a while, Armie holds Timothée close, trying to warm him up.Timothée revels in it, trying to keep the physical discomfort of this perpetual coldness out of his mind.He feels better in Armie’s arms than he has in weeks.Having Armie here relaxes him, keeps him from delving too deep into his own mind, and makes him feel safe.For a moment, that endless fear seems to subside, the pain and hunger seems to take a backseat to the happiness, and he feels safe.But for now, he can live in this tiny world they’ve created, where he is happy and safe and loved.

After maybe twenty minutes have passed, Timothée is still shivering hard, shaking violently against Armie’s chest.Without warning, Armie gets up and walks over to the couch, and for a moment Timothée thinks he’s going to sleep there, but he just grabs the throw and brings it over to the bed.

“Maybe this’ll help,” he mumbles.His voice is strained, his eyebrows furrowed.Timothée can’t see for sure in the dark, but it looks like his eyes are wet.

Armie climbs back into bed, gathers Timothée in his arms, and wraps the sheets around him.

“I’m sorry this is such a hassle,” Timothée says, embarrassed and ashamed for worrying Armie.

“It’s not a hassle,”Armie says.

“You don’t have to do all this.You can just go to sleep.”

“Just let me do this for you,” Armie says.“I want you to be comfortable, okay?I’m worried about you.”

“Sorry,” Timothée mumbles.

“Don’t be.”

They lie like that for another few minutes until Armie speaks again, his voice tight and faint, as if he’s trying to keep himself from crying: “Timothée, it’s not cold.”

“I know,” Timothée says.

“I know I said we didn’t have to talk about it tonight, but—“

Timothée interrupts him, fierce, stronger than he’s been in a while: “Yeah, that is what you said.”

“ _But,”_ Armie continues, “I’m really scared for you.Can you please just… tell me something?Anything?”

Timothée shuts his eyes and goes very still, pretending to sleep.And just like everything else these past few months, he fakes it until the real thing takes over and seizes control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that is the end of the pre-written material, so updates will slow down a bit from here on out. I still will try and get them up in a timely manner, and all of your amazing comments are very motivational. I'm glad that you guys are enjoying this. i'm on tumblr as dracorys.tumblr.com so if anyone wants to follow me or chat with me there, i'd love to do that! i'll also most likely be posting sneak peaks over there as well:)


	4. Chapter 4

When Timothée was in high school, he would spend a few nights a week holding his mother’s hand, crying and hyperventilating over a B on a test, a forgotten homework assignment, a subpar performance in an acting class, or whatever failure it was that day, and she would murmur, _it’s okay._ He would shake his head, unable to accept his failures, afraid of believing her words, terrified that if he wasn’t so hard on himself, he would tumble into mediocrity and insignificance.He’s spent his life eagerly searching for his own flaws and picking at them until they fall off, leaving him with ugly scars.He’s always been this way, eyes tearing up after every flubbed audition, flopping down on his bed in anger after every time he’s told no.He wants to be an overachiever, but he can’t quite get there—as soon as the target is in reach, it disappears, only to emerge even farther away, whispering to him, _you’re nothing._

Maybe that’s what’s gotten him here.And maybe that’s why, when he awakes and finds himself tangled in the sheets, draped on top of Armie, he feels as though he’s drowning in his own shame.It’s a familiar feeling, these days.

He’s lying on his stomach, the top of his head tucked underneath Armie’s chin.He rolls off of Armie’s chest and onto the bed next to him, searching Armie’s face for any signs of embarrassment or irritation.All he sees is a smile that reaches his eyes.Sometimes he envies Armie, his easy, uncomplicated happiness, his innate ability to keep it together in the face of any type of stress.

“Hello, sleeping beauty,” Armie says, smirking.

“What?” Timothée asks, confused.“What time is it?”

“About noon.You slept for twelve hours.Congratulations,” Armie says.

Realizing that his position on top of Armie meant that Armie was unable to get out of bed, Timothée asks, “How long have you been awake for?”

“An hour or so,” Armie says—then, as he sees Timothée’s obvious embarrassment, “no, no, it’s fine.Don’t worry about it.You were exhausted.”

Timothée toys with the too-long sleeves of his shirt, unable to make eye contact.

“But I _do_ really have to pee,” Armie says, jumping up from the bed and ambling over to the bathroom.

When Timothée hears the toilet flush and the shower turn on, he gingerly stands up, careful not to move too fast so as to avoid any dizziness.He pads over to the kitchen and and makes coffee, hoping it’ll keep his stomach satisfied for a while.It’s strange, he thinks, how disconnected he feels from his own body.As if his digestive tract is an entirely separate entity with it’s own mind and it’s own agenda, constantly screaming out for mercy.Timothée rarely gives it any.

Soon enough, Armie comes sauntering out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist and his wet hair falling into his eyes.It almost hurts to look at him, with his long expanse of golden skin, bright and glowing, visibly healthy.He inhales deeply, smiling.“You made coffee.”

“Yeah.Want some?” Timothée offers.

“Sure.”He peers into Timothée’s mug.“You drink black coffee now?Hipster.”

Timothée shakes his head and smiles.He used to take his coffee with cream and sugar, but now he takes it black.At first, he only ditched the cream, loading it up with splenda, but then he read online that even artificial sweeteners can mess with your insulin levels and prevent weight loss.So, black it is.It tastes like shit, but he doesn’t care much for taste anymore.

Armie leans back again the counter and places a hand onTimothée’s hip, and the gesture feels so intimate that Timothée nearly bolts.After these months of isolation,Armie cuddling him in his bed and drinking coffee with him in just a towel, touching him like this, when he’s got a wife and kids back in California—it’s too much and too little all at once.It’s wonderful, but it will end.In two days, he will disappear to the other side of the country, only available through pixels on a screen and a tinny telephone. 

Armie notices his flinch.“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.Sorry.”

Armie’s giving him that look again, eyebrows raised, eyes wide and focused, looking at him with something like fear, something like concern, something like pity, maybe.Timothée can’t stand it, so he rips away from him and marches over to his dresser, tugging off his shirt and looking for a clean one he can wear today.

His shirt is only off for about fifteen seconds when Armie says, “Timmy.”

“Hmm?” Timothée responds, steadfastly avoiding eye-contact.

“What are those bruises?”

Timothée blinks, turns around and looks Armie in the face.“What bruises?” he asks, genuinely confused.

Armie just stares.Timothée looks down, finding purple and blue bruises on the edge of his hips, on the outer side of his elbows, and randomly placed throughout his torso and arms.He’s never noticed them before, and he wonders if there are more under his pants.

Armie interrupts his reverie: “Where did you get those?”

“I don’t know,” Timothée answers honestly.“I guess… I guess just from bumping the counter or whatever.You know I’m clumsy.”

“You get bruises like that from bumping into the counter?” Armie stands up from the counter and walks towards Timothée.He puts his hands on his shoulders and looks him up and down, clearly searching him for more injuries.

“I don’t know…” Timothée mumbles, letting Armie spin him around to find new bruises.His hands are warm against his skin.

“Timothée,” Armie says, pulling him around to look at him again.Timothée looks away under the pressure of his intense gaze, but Armie grabs him under his chin and tilts his head up so he’s forced to make eye contact.Timothée suddenly feels as if he’s going to cry.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Timothée says, hating the way his voice sounds: weak, pathetic, small.

“Is someone hurting you?” Armie says, his voice firm, his gaze steady.

“What?” Timothée asks, shocked that this is the conclusion Armie has come to.

“Is someone hurting you?” Armie repeats.

“No!”

Armie’s face softens.“I understand that you’re scared, but you can tell me.”

“I’m not scared, and no one’s hurting me,” Timothée bites back, suddenly angry. He wiggles in Armie’s grasp, but Armie doesn’t let up.

“Why won’t you tell me anything?” Armie asks, still staring at him with that focused, analytical look, as if he is a cop interrogating a suspect.

Timothée looks him dead in the eye, and tells him slowly, clearly: “No one is hurting me.”Then he rips himself out of Armie grip, pushing him back.The force of the shove doesn’t impact Armie much, but it sends Timothée stumbling backwards and into the wall.He tries to keep his gaze stony to combat the patheticness of it.

Armie’s moves forward slightly, his hand outstretched, but then he halts suddenly, as if he’s thought better of it.“I’m just trying to protect you.”

“There’s nothing to protect me from.”

“Is that why you called me in the middle of a panic attack, telling me that you’re dying?That you’re scared, that you’re—“

“It wasn’t a panic attack,” Timothée interrupts.

“Sounded like one.”

Timothée sighs. “Can I put my clothes on now?”

Armie shrugs.Timothée takes it as a go-ahead and pulls on a clean shirt.He hesitates before changing out of his sweat pants, knowing that his legs are probably the most sickeningly skinny part of his body, and probably have just as many unexplained bruises.He’s still trying to wrap his head around the idea that these seemingly random bruises are splattered across his body, and that he could have gone so long without noticing them.He doesn’t look at his naked body much, he supposes.At least not with the lights on.

When Armie turns around and starts walking over to the kitchen counter, Timothée drops his sweatpants and pulls on jeans quickly.He watches as Armie shuffles over to his suitcase, pulling on clothes, and then opens the empty refrigerator. He turns around.“Do you have any food here?”

Timothée hesitates, purses his lips, and shakes his head.

“None at all?”

“No,” Timothée says.“Are you hungry?We can go get something.”

Armie plows through Timothée’s attempts to deflect.“What have you been eating then?If there’s nothing in the house.”

Timothée shrugs. “You know I’ve been losing weight for this role.And I’ve never eaten much anyway.”

“So you just never eat?” Armie asks.

“I ate last night.You saw it,” Timothée says.“Listen, if you want food, let’s go get breakfast.”

Armie stands there for a moment, his jaw tense and his eyes narrow, and Timothée realizes belatedly that he’s actually angry.“You said we’d talk,” he says.

“We will.But you’re clearly hungry, so let’s go get food, and then—“

“I wanna talk _now,”_ Armie says, his voice low and dangerous.He’s never spoken like that to Timothée before.To other people around Timothée, yes, but never directly to him.

Timothée’s mouth falls open as he gapes at Armie.“Sorry,” he says, eventually, though he doesn’t know exactly what he’s meant to be sorry for.

Armie tilts his head to the side.“Just be honest with me.Please.When have you last eaten?”

Timothée fixes his gaze steadily on the floor, tears of humiliation welling up in his eyes.

Armie strides over to him, fast and strong and threatening, and then gently places his hands on the top of Timothée’s neck, cupping either side of his jaw.“I’m not gonna be mad, I just wanna know.I came here so I can help you, and I can’t help you if I don’t know what I’m dealing with.”

“You’re helping me just by being here,” Timothée whispers honestly.

“Not in the way that counts.Answer the question, Timo.” _Timo._ Armie barely ever calls him that.It reminds him of the hot, slow summers he spent in France as a young child, falling asleep at the dinner table, his father scooping him up in his arms and murmuring, _allons-y, Timo.C’est l’heure du coucher, mon ange._

“I ate the day I called you.A lot,” Timothée says.

“That’s why you freaked out?Because you ate a lot?” Armie asks, rubbing his thumbs gently along Timothée’s jawline.

“That, and—well, it had been a long time since I ate before that,” Timothée admits.

“How long?”

And just when Timothée is about to say it out loud, the wrongness of his actions suddenly comes into full view. _This will sound really bad,_ Timothée thinks, _this will scare him._ And yet, he knows he cannot stop.Doesn’t _want_ to stop.

“Timothée.”

“Five days,” Timothée forces out.

Armie halts and stiffens, and seems to hold his breath for a moment.“Do you do that often?Go that long without eating.”

Timothée nods, small and probably imperceptible if Armie wasn’t watching him so closely.“I’m just trying to do a good job.For this role,” Timothée tries to explain, his voice shaky and small.He wishes Armie would just pull him into a hug and he could bury his face against Armie’s shoulder, but Armie just holds him still in that exposed, vulnerable position.

“This is what you were trying to tell me, that night you texted me.When you said that this movie is going to kill you.You weren’t joking.”It’s not a question; Armie’s not looking for confirmation.He knows.“I should’ve… fuck.”

“It’s okay,” Timothée says quickly, trying to remove any semblance of self-doubt from Armie’s mind.“I told you I was okay, I _am_ okay.It’s just… it’s hard, but I’m okay.”

Armie blinks at him.“No… what made you call me?”   


“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does.Tell me—or I’ll just think the worst.”

Timothée takes a deep breath, and says: “I—I ate a ton of food.And then I made myself throw up.”

Armie’s eyes widen.“Timothée, no, you—“

“I know!” Timothée barks out.“I know it’s bad, I’m not gonna do it again.It felt awful, and that’s why I was upset, and now I know what it’s like, and I’m not gonna do it again.You don’t have to worry about that.”

“This is really bad, Timmy,” Armie says, dropping his arms and pacing around the room.“You can’t just be starving yourself and making yourself throw up and then acting like it’s all okay.”

“I know.I’m not gonna throw up again,” Timothée promises, and he means it.“Look, it’s just for the movie.When shooting is over, I’ll go back to normal.”

“It’s a job.You don’t have to kill yourself for it,” Armie says.

“I’m careful,” Timothée says, and he truly believes he is. _This isn’t a problem,_ Timothée tells himself, _Anorexics don’t know that what they’re doing is wrong.I do._ To him, that’s the difference.As long as he can maintain that self-awareness, he’s certain he can maintain his sanity.

“It _really_ doesn’t seem like it.”

Timothée knew this was coming.He knew from the beginning that his desire for companionship and comfort was at odds with his desire to continue uninhibited down this path.But nothing he could have done would have prepared him for the fear radiating off of Armie, the anger, the combativeness.“It’s temporary, Armie,” Timothée tries.

Armie looks him square in the face, and speaks very slowly, like a frustrated teacher speaking to a deviant child: “You have to promise me that when you’re done with this movie, you will go back to eating normally.”

Timothée tries to picture that.He tries to imagine taking his coffee with milk again, having meals with his family and friends again, eating until he’s full again.He tries to imagine what he would look like as he slowly gained the weight back, as his ribs and spine disappeared underneath a layer of fat, as his face regained its softness and color.He tries to imagine how it would feel to shove away hunger, the one loyal companion he has left, the only one who hasn’t abandoned him, the only one who doesn’t hassle him and infantilize him and order him around.

The thought disgusts him.How could he desert his only source of power?

This commitment wouldn’t even come into play until after Armie’s already left, Timothée realizes.He’ll have no way of knowing, no way to enforce this ultimatum.Timothée can do whatever he wants.So he stands up straight, looks Armie in the eye, and says, “I promise.


	5. Chapter 5

Later that night , Timothée lies in his bed with his eyes shut while Armie pads around the apartment doing god-knows what.It’s clear that Armie thinks he’s fallen asleep by now.Timothée can hear him talking on the phone to someone, too hushed for Timothée to make out; he can hear the arrhythmic tapping of a keyboard, and the sound of a laptop shutting.Then he can hear Armie’s footsteps, as he walks to the edge of the bed.

Timothée expect Armie to climb in, but he doesn’t.Instead, he reaches over and places his hand on Timothée’s head, gently combs through his hair, and whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

***

Sunday night, Armie returned to LA, effectively leaving Timothée to his own devices until the next time they’ll see each other, a date that is dubious, at best.Armie did leave with one condition, though.“Call your parents,” he said.“Or I will.”

Of all the confessions Timothée has made, the one that seemed to scare Armie the most was that he cut off contact with his family and friends.He seemed to understand why Timothée was eating—or rather, not eating—the way he was, he even seemed to understand, on some level, why he forced himself to throw up.He didn’t agree with it, but he seemed to get it.He seemed to know that Timothée was working hard for the movie, and had gone too far in his efforts to be perfect.But he couldn’t understand why Timothée would completely stop talking to his friends and family, and it terrified him.

Timothée couldn’t very well tell him: _it’s because they would make me eat.It’s because they see right through me.It’s because my parents deserve better than to see their son sick and weak and pathetic, so it’s better for them not to see me at all._ He couldn’t very well tell Armie that he’s completely ashamed and disgusted with who he is, with what he has become, and yet he cannot stop it.He can’t tell Armie that at some point, the hunger stopped causing him pain, and started easing his pain.At some point, the hunger stopped being the problem, and started being the solution.He couldn’t tell Armie that, so he told him nothing at all

Now Timothée sits on the corner of his bed, his head in his hands, trying to figure out what to do.When Armie leaves, it always leaves him feeling like something inside of him is missing, but this time he feels as if whatever it is has been ripped out of him.As if someone tore out one of his vital organs, threw it away, and then looked at him and asked, _so what’s the problem?_

It hurts, to say the least, and it leaves him aimless and idle in his misery.He supposes he could call his parents like Armie asked, apologize for ignoring them for weeks, give some fake explanation as to why, and promise to keep better contact in the future.But that’s not a conversation he’s ready for tonight.Instead, looks up the time in Paris.A little past midnight—Pauline should still be up.He calls her.

“Allô?”

“Hey,” Timothée says.“C’est moi.”

“ _Timoooo,_ ” she sings.He can hear her smile.“What’s up?”

“Pas beaucoup,” he replies.Talking to Pauline is just as easy as it’s always been.With an ocean between them, Pauline has no way of guessing what’s going on with him, no reason to worry, no questions to ask.It’s a relief.“Armie just left,” he reveals, quietly.

“Armie était la?” she asked.

“Yeah.He came to stay for a weekend because he was— because we hadn’t seen each other in a while and we thought it would be nice.”

“And was it?”

“Ouais.Mais maintenant c’est—I dunno.Sad.”

“Mm.It’s kinda like going home from summer camp, isn’t it?”  
Timothée’s first instinct is to reject that comparison, to throw his phone across the room and scream _it’s not the same!_ But the more he thinks about it, the more apt the description feels.He remembers that feeling—hugging your friends goodbye, making plans for next summer, promising to keep in touch though you know you’ll lose track of each other soon enough.Sitting in your room, alone for the first time in months, surrounded by a silence that feels foreign and strange.

It does feel similar.But Timothée is no longer ten years old, and he can’t be cheered up by a bike ride or a cartoon.There is one thing, however, that can distract him.He just needs to wait a while until the physical emptiness matches the emotional one, and eventually knocks him out, his mind numb and his heartbeat slow.

“Timo?” Pauline asks.“You there?”

“Yeah,” Timothée says.“Désolé. I zoned out.”

Pauline is silent for a moment, then says, “it’ll be okay.You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I know that you have a crush, but you’ll get over it,” Pauline says.

_A crush._ It makes him sound like a ditzy 13-year-old.Naive and hopeful utterly helpless.He supposes it’s apt—that is how he feels, sometimes.

“Je sais.I just… I just don’t know what to do right now.”

“Order a pizza, watch some TV.Go to bed early.When you wake up in the morning, you’ll be back to to your routine and you’ll feel better.”

“You talk to me like I’m a little kid,” Timothée grumbles.

“Well, you still are, to me,” Pauline says.“Hey—maybe you should just move to Paris.”

“Move to Paris?” Timothée echoes, incredulous.

“Yeah.Then I can keep an eye on you and stop you from brooding like a teenager.”

“I do not _brood.”_

“Eh, discutable.”

“I can’t just _move to Paris._ I have work, and school.”

“Well, maybe you should visit.”

“Maybe.”

“Although it is surprising to me that you haven’t just dropped out of school at this point.”

“Okay, you know, I didn’t call you so that you could drag me.”

“Love you,” Pauline says, in that sing-song voice she uses to tease Timothée.

“Yeah, whatever.I’m hanging up.”

_Paris,_ he thinks.It’s ridiculous.And yet, the idea lodges itself into Timothée’s brain, and he’s unable to rid himself of it.

***

Pauline’s prophecy proves true: within a day or two, Timothée feels back to normal.The emptiness in his stomach hurts in the stable, comforting way he’s grown used to, distracting him from the dull, ever-present loneliness.He sends Armie exclusively happy texts, trying to keep appearances up, along with some memes.They talk on the phone almost every night, and Timothée makes it a point to laugh often and keep the conversation light.He only has three days left of shooting, and now that things have stabilized slightly, he feels more comfortable calling his mother.

“Timothée?” she says, as soon as she answers.

“Hi,” Timothée replies, sheepish.

“Where have you been?Why haven’t you called us?I’ve been so worried, it’s—“

“I know, I know.I’m sorry.I’ve been really busy.”

“So busy that you couldn’t take ten seconds to text us back?”

“I’m sorry.I don’t know what to say.I’ve been really stressed out.Sorry,” Timothée says.

Nicole is quiet for a moment.“Is everything okay?”

“Yes.I’m fine.Sorry.”

“Okay, okay, I get the point.You don’t need to apologize a thousand times,” Nicole says, laughing.She’s never been strict with him.“Listen, come over for dinner.Spend time with us.When do you finish shooting?”

“Friday,” Timothée answers numbly.

“Come over then.I’ll cook you something.”

“You really don’t have too,” Timothée says, terrified by the idea of having to hide everything from his parents.They know him inside and out, they’ll be able to tell if he’s lying to them, they’ll be able to tell if he’s spitting all his food back into a napkin, they’ll be able to tell if he’s shaking and dizzy and sick.

“Let me, Timmy.I’m your mom.It’s my job.”

“Well, okay, I guess,” Timothée answers.There are parts of it that sound nice—the company of his parents, sitting around in the apartment he grew up in.Feeling safe, feeling a bit less alone. It’ll be comforting, in certain ways.In other ways, it will be awful.Timothée knows this, and he supposes he’ll figure it out somehow.

They talk for a couple minutes longer, until Timothée begs off, claiming exhaustion.His mother lets him off the line after making him promise to talk to them more often.Everyone seems to have conditions for him, now.

He texts Armie to let him know he’s followed up on his instructions. _called my parents and talked to them._

Armie replies within a few minutes: _good boy._

***

Timothée pushes through the final days of filming, and then heads straight to his parents apartment, exhausted and relieved and giving in to his desire to be loved.He bought flowers, as a sort of apology for falling off the radar and ignoring his family for months, but he feels stupid as stands at the door, holding them.

His mother opens the door and immediately pulls him into a hug.“I missed you.”

“Missed you too,” Timothée says guiltily.He’s uncomfortable in her embrace, like he doesn’t deserve it and never will again.

“Are these for me?” she asks when she pulls out of the hug and sees the flowers.

“Yeah, uh, I felt, well—I thought it would be nice.Since I haven’t seen you in a while.”

She takes the flowers and retreats into the kitchen to put them in a vase.

His father, sitting on the couch, stares at Timothée for a moment.Then he says, “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” Timothée says.

“You look ill.”

“I’m just tired.”

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Well, we’re feeding him!” his mother calls from the kitchen.“So leave him alone!”

“Alright, alright,” his father says, standing up.“Viens-ici.”His father hugs him and pecks him on the temple, the way he has since Timothée was a child, and Timothée tries not to wriggle out of it.“Allons-y, let’s eat.”

His mother has prepared pasta that’s been loaded up with cheese and butter.It smells wonderful, but there’s probably a thousand calories in his bowl alone.He conspicuously takes a bite and swallows it, figuring that a single noodle won’t kill him after a few days of fasting, and it’ll put his parents of his trail.It feels nice in his mouth, and he’s tempted to finish the bowl in front of it him.But then he’d have to vomit, and he isn’t going to be one of those kids who sticks their fingers down their throats on a regular basis to rid themselves of the consequences of their actions.He’d like to think he’s a bit more disciplined than that.

The dinner conversation is mostly unremarkable, although it is marked by more awkward silences and concerned stares than normal.They talk about the movie, what his plans are now that they’ve finished — _Pauline invited me to visit her in Paris, but I don’t think I will_ — and random other personal tidbits.

“Mange, Timothée,” his father says.

“I am!”

“You really barely have,” his mother says, her voice gentle, but insistent.“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.I’m not feeling well.My stomach is bothering me.”It’s not a lie.He hasn’t eaten dairy in months, it’s just not worth the calories, and pasta with cheese isn’t the best food to break a fast with.His stomach is gurgling in protest, and he’ll probably be hunched over on the toilet later tonight.

“You said you weren’t ill,” his father says.

“I felt fine before I ate.”

“You’ve eaten this before; it’s never bothered you’re stomach,” his mother says.

“I dunno what to tell you.My stomach hurts; I don’t know why.”

“Well, okay.Do you want to go lie down?”

Timothée nods and stands up.He thinks about lying down on the couch in the living room, but there’s something drawing him up the stairs, into his old childhood bedroom.He lies on his side on his bed and waits for his stomach to settle.This room is nothing like the minimalist, all white bedroom he has in his own apartment, nothing like the queen sized mattress that sits directly on the floor directly next to the window.No; this room has a twin sized bed on a bed stand, posters coating the wall, awards from high school drama competitions on top of his dresser.Somewhere around here, he knows, is his high school senior year book, filled with messages from his old friends.Filled with good lucks, and I love yous, and I’ll miss yous, all from people who have most likely forgotten about him by now.

Downstairs, he can hear his father talking to his mother in rapid french.He can only make out bits and pieces of it: “Il y a quelque chose de faux.… Il disparaît pendant des mois puis revient maigre comme ça, l'air affreux, refusant de manger ... ça ne va pas.… 

Et maintenant il est malade?Quelque chose ne va pas.”

“Okay, okay,” his mother says.“But nothing’s going to be accomplished by grilling him.He’ll come to us when he’s ready.He’s probably just stressed and overwhelmed.You know how he gets.”

Timothée clenches his eyes shut and pinches the skin on stomach to drown out the noise.To drown out what he’s always known to be true: that he causes others nothing but pain and anxiety, that he offers nothing of value, nothing of use, and can provide nothing.

Lying here in his childhood bedroom, listening to his parents pass sentences back and forth in a mishmash of languages, he’s hit with a wave of nostalgia that nearly brings tears to his eyes.He misses being cared for, but he knows he doesn’t deserve it.

After a few minutes, it becomes clear that his stomach is going to reject what he just ate, and he stumbles over to the bathroom and sits on the toilet.He’s never had a sensitive stomach, and yet, here he is, sweating on the toilet as his intestines cramp and shove out everything he’s just consumed.It’s mostly water, but it burns.

After he’s finished and the pain has subsided, he walks out of his bedroom, lightheaded, to find his parents.His father is sitting at the kitchen table on his laptop, googling something.

“Papa, je peux dormir ici ce soir?” Timothée asks, his voice small, like a child’s.

His father closes his laptop and turns around to look at him.“Oui bien sûr. Vous n'avez pas à demander.”

“Okay.Thank you,” Timothée says.

“Alright.If you’re not feeling well, you should go up to bed.You look exhausted.”

Timothée nods and starts to head up the stairs, relieved to have a set of instructions that he can follow, relieved that he does not have to betray anyone right now.

“Timothée,” his father says, and Timothée stops to listen.“Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime aussi,” Timothée replies.He feels like the words are pulled out of him, they come out so easily.

Timothée looks through the drawers in his bedroom and finds an old pair of pajama pants and a tee shirt.They still fit, surprisingly, though he hasn’t worn then since he was about fifteen.It’s only eight pm, but Timothée climbs into bed anyway.Within a few minutes, he’s out cold.

But he’s woken up by a phone call.Without checking to see who’s calling, he groggily answers the phone, just in case there’s something important.

“Hello?”

“Timmy?”It’s Armie.

“Yeah, hey.”

“Were you asleep?”

Timothée hesitates, embarrassed.“Yeah.”

Armie laughs.“It’s so early!”

“I know.I wasn’t feeling well.”

Armie goes quiet for a second, then asks: “Are you okay?”

He’s worried.Timothée officially hates himself.

“I’m okay now.”

“Okay.I just wanted to check in.You’re done filming by now, right?”

“Right.”

“So, you’re… you’re gonna be okay now, right?” Armie asks.

“Yes,” Timothée replies softly.“Yes, I’ll be okay now.Guess where I am.”

“Um, in bed?” Armie asks.

“Guess _what_ bed,” Timothée clarifies.

“What?Okay, damn, Timmy, who are you fucking?”

Timothée sputters.“Wait, wait, that is _not_ what I meant.I’m in my bed at my parent’s place.”

“Oh.Well, that’s far less exciting.”

“Yeah.I came here for dinner and I’m just gonna sleep here tonight.It’s really weird, sleeping in this bed.”

“So you ate dinner.And you’re with your parents.” He sounds choked up, almost.Timothée hates the effect it has on him.“God, Timmy, that’s—I’m so happy.I’m so glad that you’re okay now.”

Timothée pinches the skin on his leg tight enough to bruise as penance for dishonestly.“Yeah, everything is back to normal,” Timothée forces out, the lie burning his mouth as he says it.

“So, speaking of other people’s beds though—how is the love life of Timothée Chalamet?”  
“Uh,” Timothée stutters, surprised by the shift.“Pretty uneventful.”If he were to give the honest details, he’d say that he hasn’t had sex in over a month, maybe more.Hasn’t had the energy for it, hasn’t had the drive to even masturbate very often.

“You’re not seeing anyone?”

“How would I even—“ Timothée stutters, completely taken aback by the ridiculousness of the idea.“Who would—why would anyone event want…” He trails off, aware that if he keeps going, he’ll just throw all his insecurities at Armie.

“Timmy, what?”

“Nothing.No, I’m not seeing anyone, is the answer.”

“No, no, I got that, but—what were you saying?”

“It’s just.”Timothée sighs.“I’m not you, Armie.People don’t want me.”

“Timmy…”

“No, don’t.I’m not even being self-deprecating right now, it’s just the truth.I’m a mess.No one wants that.”

“Timmy, come on.You’re being ridiculous.Plenty of people would—“

“They wouldn’t, Armie!” Timothée snaps.“They wouldn’t, and they’re right not to!You fucking said it yourself, I look bad.Okay, no one has ever wanted me, and if I were someone else, I wouldn’t want me either.It’s not gonna happen, I’m not worth it.”

Armie says nothing, and in that silence, Timothée comes to his sense and realizes what he’s just revealed.“I’m sorry.I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“I don’t understand how you could say that about yourself.You’re not worth it?Timmy, come on,” Armie says, sounding exasperated.

“It’s fine, Armie.”

“It’s not.I can’t—“

“I didn’t say this looking to be comforted, so you don’t have to bother.It just came out.I shouldn’t have said anything,” Timothée says, staring at the ceiling, listen to the fan whir back and forth.He’s shivering, he notices.

Armie is quiet for a moment.“Do you actually think that about yourself?”

Timothée sighs. “I guess.Look, it’s not a big deal, I’m not the first insecure twenty year old, and I certainly won’t be the last so you can just… I dunno.Go back to whatever you were doing before.You don’t need to take care of me, I’m an adult, I should be able to handle this stuff myself.”

“Timmy, you’re twenty.You’re allowed to ask for help.Yes, recently, you’ve been going through a hard time, but that doesn’t mean you’re not worth loving.I really can’t think of anyone who wouldn’t love you.”

_You don’t,_ Timothée thinks, _not in the way I want it._

Maybe that’s the root of it all.Maybe it’s easier to focus on the pain from his hunger than it is to focus on the pain from loving Armie.Maybe, out of the two things he wants most in the world, weight loss is the easier goal to achieve.He can’t control what anyone else does, but he can control what he does.And if he can’t make Armie love him, he’ll make his own body hate him.

“Timothée?” Armie asks.

“Yeah.I’m here.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m good.”

“I don’t like you saying those things about yourself.”

“Then I won’t say it again,” Timothée says.

“What I mean is, I don’t like you thinking those things about yourself.”

Timothée says nothing.There’s no honest response that won’t upset Armie further, and he’s tired of lying all the time.

“I’m thinking of going to New York to visit you again.”

Timothée feels his heart rate pick up.That can’t happen; Armie can’t find out he’s not following through on his promise.“Why?”

“To see you,” Armie answers, like it’s that simple.

“Yes, but—why?What’s the point?”

“Is it that ridiculous that I just wanna hang out with you?” Armie asks.

“I guess not…” Timothée trails off, still suspicious.

“Plus, I don’t think it would hurt to have someone around you.I just wanna make sure that you’re alright, okay?I’m glad that you’re talking to your family again, but you still seem off, and I just want to—“

“I’m going to Paris, actually,” Timothée blurts out, deciding it as he says it.“So you can’t see me in New York.”

“Paris?”

“Yes.Pauline is there.”

“But I can’t go all the way to Paris…”

“Well, I didn’t know that you were planning visiting me.”

“Okay.Well, uh…” Armie sounds somewhat offended.“How long are you gonna stay there?”

“Actually, I’m thinking of moving there,” Timothée says.It’s a complete lie, but it’s a decent idea.Six thousand miles should be enough to keep Armie from catching him in his lie.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“You never said anything.”

“It’s a fairly new idea,” Timothée justifies.

“Why Paris?”

“I like Paris.And Pauline is there, and… I dunno.It’d be nice to have a change.”

“It doesn’t even make sense, Timothée,” Armie says.Through the phone it sounds like he’s walking around the room.“You have work here, and you go to NYU, and—“

“NYU has a Paris campus!It’ll all work out,” Timothée says.

“But,” Armie says, his voice soft, quiet, “I’ll never be able to see you if you’re all the way in Paris.”

The genuine sadness in Armie’s voice silences Timothée.

“I’ll miss you,” Armie says.“And I’ll worry about you.”

“You shouldn’t waste your time worrying about me.I’m not—“

“If you say you’re not worth it, I’m going to fly to New York right now just to slap you,” Armie says.

Timothée surprises himself by laughing.“What I mean is you don’t have to worry.I’m gonna stay with Pauline for now.And she doesn’t put up with bullshit.”

“No, she really doesn’t,” Armie muses.“But.I dunno.I just really wish I could see you again.You seemed really not-okay last time I saw you, and I just—I wish I could get that image out of my head.And if I saw you again, then, you know, I would know for sure if you’re okay.And then I’d be able to sleep at night.”

The last sentence is said with a laugh, but it shakes Timothée nonetheless. _He hasn’t been able to sleep because he’s so worried?_ Timothée clenches his eyes shut, hating himself for his selfishness, hating himself for hurting people, hating himself for being in anyone’s life at all when they would all be better off if he just stayed away.

“I’m going to Paris,” Timothée whispers, sure of it now. He can’t stay anywhere near Armie, not when this is the impact he has on his life.It’s time to stop being greedy.

“I—alright.I mean, I guess that’s not up to me.I wish you weren’t,” Armie says.

“Sorry.”

For a long time, Armie says nothing.Then, finally: “Go back to sleep, Timmy.”

For the first time, Timothée doesn’t know if he’s forgiven.He doesn’t know if he deserves to be.


	6. Chapter 6

When Timothée was a small child, he would sleep in his parents bed after he had nightmares.He would nestle in between the two of them, feeling their body heat on either side, and know that he was protected.He would know that he was safe, and that there was no reason to be afraid. 

It’s how he feels right now. 

He lies in his childhood bed for hours after waking up, his eyes closed against the rising sun, his mind blank and numb.He has no desire to move, no desire to think, no desire to speak to anyone.He could sleep, maybe, but he doesn’t necessarily want to.The apathy isn’t painful, necessarily.It’s just nothing.He has nowhere to be, nothing to do.He can hear his parents, puttering around in the kitchen and talking.He’ll miss them in Paris.

A little while later, his door creaks open.Before Timothée can even turn to see who it is, there is a weight on the bed, a hand in his hair that he recognizes distinctly as his father’s.

“Timo,” he says, combing through his hair, undoing the knots in his curls. “Ca va?”

“Oui,” Timothée says.

“Are you still not feeling well?”

“I’m just tired.”

“Your mom and I—we’re worried about you.”

Timothée sighs. _Everyone is._ “I’m gonna go to Paris for a while.”

His father’s hand stills in his hair.“Timo, you know you can always talk to us, right?”

Timothée says nothing, just closes his eyes and pretends to fall asleep.His father sits there with him for a long time, petting his hair, scratching his scalp.Timothée expects him to leave within a few minutes, but he stays put.And when he finally does get up, Timothée has already fallen back asleep.

***

Timothée leaves for Paris within a few days, to the dismay of just about everyone.Just before he gets on the plane, Armie texts him: _timmy, please just stay in new york.this is pointless._

Timothée thinks, _you live in L.A., you asshole._ Then he texts back _sorry_ and boards his plane.

Pauline greets him at the airport, pulls him into a hug and mumbles, “Jesus, you look like shit.”

“There was a lot of turbulence.I didn’t sleep at all,” Timothée says, telling about an eighth of the truth.

“You should get some anxiety meds.They’ll knock you right out,” Pauline says.“You fly too much to ignore this problem.”

Timothée nods, partially agreeing.He’s always been a nervous flier, and it has become increasingly problematic as he’s begun to fly more and more often.But if he were to get a prescription, he’d have to go to a shrink, and if he went to a shrink, who knows what they could dig out of him.It’s a bad idea.He can deal with a little fear every now and then—he deals with it everyday, now.

“Wanna get something to eat on the way home?” Pauline asks.

“Non, je suis bien.There was food on the plane.”

“Alright,” she says, clearly thinking nothing of it.Timothé’s never eaten much, really, always been one to push the food around on his plate and forget random meals.He’s always been a picky eater, and when he was a kid, his parents would give him a nutritional drink disguised as chocolate milk. _Boost Pro,_ it was called, _Very High Calorie._ He drank them all the way through tenth grade, when one of his friends found out and made fun of him for it.Then he started rejecting the drinks, and he dropped ten pounds within two weeks.Looking back, Timothée is grateful for the whole experience, because it means that when he refuses meals, most people think he’s just being fussy.

When they arrive at Pauline’s one bedroom apartment, it’s a little past nine.Timothée walks straight over to the bed, earning a little laugh from Pauline.She follows him and crawls into the opposite side of the bed, and they both stare at the ceiling.

“How are you?” she says.It’s not the polite, _hey, how are you?Fine, thanks._ It’s a genuine question.

“Okay,” Timothée says, answering the question the most honestly he has in months.

“It’ll be good for you to be here,” Pauline says.“You need a change of pace, I think.”

“Yeah, I think so too.It’ll be good to get away from everything.”

“Tu m'as manqué.”

“Tu m’as manqué aussi.”

They spend the next few hours talking and giggling, despite the fact that Timothée’s so tired he feels like he could pass out at any moment.He’s reminded of the vacations his family would take when they were children.He would always share a bed with Pauline, and they would kick the shit out of each other to gain more space in the bed, and tug at the blanket to gain dominance.Pauline almost always won out.They would crawl under the sheets with their flash lights and whisper to each other far past their bedtimes.Something in his chest swells up at the thought that he’ll spend the next few weeks—or months, even—doing that again.

The following day, Pauline takes him to a café where they both order espressos and split a croissant.He sends a snapchat of it to Armie to ease some of his worry.Timothée picks at the croissant, leaving most of it for Pauline, and she certainly doesn’t complain.They spend the day walking around Paris, a city that he knows fairly well, at this point.He has plenty of family here, and has considered following Pauline here more than once.It’s no New York, but it’s a good city.

He doesn’t eat all day, feeling very proud that his ability to fast is improving.He’s exhausted and slow and breathless within minutes of walking, yes, but it doesn’t make him actually want food.If anything, it makes him happy that he’s burning more calories.

If Pauline notices something is off, she doesn’t say anything.At least, not until they get back home that night.He showers first, and a wave of dizziness hits him under the warm water.He forces himself to push through it, knowing that if he passes out in the shower, he’ll probably die.

And Timothée does not want to die.

He doesn’t think so, anyway.So washes his hair and his body, using Pauline’s flowery soaps, and stumbles out of the shower.In the process, he knocks his foot against the edge of the bathtub, and as he feels a sickening crack in his big toe, he hisses in pain.The lightheadedness only increases, and he has to sit down on the toilet to keep from leaning back and hitting his head.

He wraps a towel around his his waist and calls out for Pauline, nervous and in too much pain to figure out a better solution.

“Yeah?” she calls back.

“I just—I just hurt myself.Can you come here?”

Within seconds, Pauline is opening the door and walking in.She stares at him for a moment. “You look like you’re gonna pass out.What happened?”

“I just.I hit my foot.My toe.I don’t know.”He’s having trouble breathing, having trouble doing much of anything around the pain radiating from his toe.

She crouches down and takes a look.Gingerly, she touches the toe, and Timothée flinches away in pain.

“Do you think it’s broken?”  
“Yeah.I heard a crack.”

“Do you wanna go to the hospital?”

“No!” Timothée answers, perhaps a bit too aggressively.“It’s just a toe.I’m fine.”

“It’s bent in a really weird direction.”

“There’s no need for a hospital.I’ll be fine.”

Pauline grabs Timothée hands and gingerly pulls him to his feet.He winces, and lets her put an arm under his shoulder’s and guide him to the couch.He sits down, laying his feet up on the arm rest of the couch and his head back on a pillow, closing his eyes. _Fuck._ Pauline disappears and then returns with an ice pack and a bottle of pills. He hopes the coolness will help the pain, but it doesn’t.

“You’re a mess,” Pauline says.

“Yeah.”

She shoves the bottle of pills at him.“Vicodin.Take one.But only one.”

“Where did you get these?”

Pauline just shrugs and walks to the bathroom.

Timothée eyes the bottle suspiciously.He doesn’t know much about vicodin—doesn’t know if it’s an oxycodone or not.Should he really be taking painkillers for a broken toe? Well, he thinks, it _is_ a broken bone. And if Pauline keeps it around, it’s probably not too bad.He takes one dry and closes his eyes.

“Timo,” Pauline calls.“You left a bunch of hair in the shower.”

“Are you sure it’s not yours?”

“Yeah, it’s too dark.It’s definitely yours.How did this much come out in just one wash?”

Timothée’s eyes fly open, and he runs his fingers through his hair. When he pulls it away, there are strands in between his fingers.He knew this was a possibility.He’s not stupid; he knows that what he’s doing has an effect on his body.But for it to be visible, for it to be so clear, so noticeable; it hurts in an entirely unique way.

But before he can really even react, the drugs hit his system, and he drifts off.

When he wakes up, the sun has risen and Pauline is gone.He stands up slowly, careful of his foot.The joint aches, and he bends it back and forth in an attempt to relieve the stiffness.He looks at his phone—multiple texts messages.

From Armie: _looks good.hope ur having a good time, call me when you can._

Timothée ignores it.

From Pauline: _had to go to work.i’ll be back around six._

Timothée limps over to the bathroom to pee, trying to figure out how he’ll spend his day.He didn’t come to Paris to be alone; he wanted the company of Pauline.He missed the easy comradory between the two of them, missed having someone around who loves him but doesn’t panic whenever he does something they don’t agree with.

He washes his hands and looks in the bathroom mirror.He looks awful.His face is gaunt, his eyes sunken, hair thin, breath awful.He knows he needs to do something, or else he’ll end up crying.Impulsively, he reaches for the pair of scissors in the drawer. _Short hair looks thicker,_ he thinks, snipping at the hair in front of his face until it’s just past his eyebrow. 

He continues methodically, until his hair is just slightly longer than it was in Italy.He stares at himself, trying to decide if the haircut had the desired effect.Dead eyes stare back at him, and he suddenly feels very distant from the person in the mirror.

“Hey, Elio,” he says, “You fucked up too?”

He nods at himself.

“That’s what happens when you’re not loved back.”

_I’m going fucking insane,_ he thinks, and steps away from the mirror.He’s losing control.Of himself, of his life.He needs to do something to take it back, to take his body back.

When Timothée was a junior in high school, he took A.P. World History.He got an A in the class and a 5 on the A.P. exam.He learned about Genghis Khan.He killed maybe 40 million people.A lot of pain for a lot of power; that’s the way it works.He conquered 12 million square miles.Timothée just wants to conquer his own body.

That’s what he thinks about as he puts on a pair of sneakers, finds the nearest park, and runs until he feels like his chest is going to explode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter was horrible??? i managed to have too much and too little happen at the same time??? im sorry???


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for drug use and sexual violence

“Jesus Christ, what did you _do?”_ Pauline asks when she returns home and sees Timothée’s hair.

“I cut my hair,” He says, a little self-conscious.He didn’t realize it looked bad.Since going for his run, Timothée has showered, taken a nap, and thumbed through one of Pauline’s books.He didn’t look in the mirror.

“Yeah, I can see that.”Pauline makes a circle around him, getting a look at it from all angles. “It’s all uneven.”

Timothée raises his hand to the back of his hair, feeling through the curls.“Oh.”

“I can fix it.Come on.”Pauline takes him by the wrist and leads him to the bathroom mirror, where he’s forced to stare at himself more.Pauline stands up on a stool and sets to work on the back of his head.

It doesn’t take long for her to finish, but it’s long enough for Timothée remember how much he hates the way he looks, and definitely long enough for him for regret cutting his hair.It didn’t make him look better; it just made him look like a kid.As if he didn’t already have enough of a hard time getting people to take him seriously.

“Done,” Pauline declares, hopping down from her stool.She steps in front of him and ruffles the hair in front of his face.“So, considering you are of drinking age in this country, I was thinking I could show you some Paris nightlife.”

Timothée shrugs.It’s something to do.“Sure.”

Pauline invites some friends over, and they pregame for an hour or so before leaving.Timothée’s tolerance isn’t what it once was, but it’s a good night, from what he remembers.They go out again the next night, and the night after that.Then Pauline stays home, as she has to work, but Timothée keeps going.

Before long, he’s made some friends, by a loose definition of the word, and has a pretty set routine.He wakes up around noon, goes for a run, takes a vicodin for his toe and falls asleep.Then he dicks around the apartment for a while, reading or watching netflix or looking up the calories in the seal of an envelope. He takes up writing, a bit, trying to keep his mind active, as he can feel it slowing down.He has trouble staying focused on things for very long, and he has trouble figuring things out that he would normally understand in a second.

He thinks back to that first fear he had, when he started shooting Beautiful Boy.That when all of the weight-loss was said and done, he’d be dumber for it.

It’s happening; he can feel it.It’s amazing to him that once would’ve been enough for him to call the whole thing quits.

When Pauline comes home from work, they eat dinner together.He picks at his, or spits bites back into the napkin, but he has to swallow a couple bites each meal or Pauline will notice.Almost every night, a few hours later, he goes to a bar or a club and makes sure to drink enough that he vomits, so that he doesn’t retain any of the calories from the alcohol.

He has multiple unread text messages from Armie on his phone.If Timothée was less of an asshole, maybe he’d text him back.But this is who he is now, who he’s become, and he has to be okay with it.This is the price you pay for control.

The whole thing works out decently enough.He keeps himself busy until—well, he doesn’t exactly know what he’s waiting for.But it does constantly feel like waiting, this can’t go on forever, this limbo, this half-life.There must be an end in sight, and TImothée can’t tell what it is, not unless it’s—

Timothée shakes the thought away.

Two weeks into his stay in Paris, Timothée clubbing alone.He has a fever, and his toe is swollen and hot the touch, but he doesn’t care.Pauline gives him this strange, concerned look when he leaves, but says nothing.He goes to the club he’s been frequenting, buys himself a drink, and downs it in one go.Then he orders another, a double this time.The bartender raises his eyebrows but serves him nonetheless.

It hits him fast.When you’ve got maybe three-percent body fat, alcohol tends to do that.He leans against the bar, and on the other end of the counter, through the strobe lights and loud house music and crowded, sweaty dancers is a tall, blonde man.

_Armie,_ Timothée thinks, a pang of loneliness hitting him suddenly.But then the man turns his head, and he doesn’t look anything like Armie, not really, but if Timothée squints, then—

Maybe.

The man turns and looks at him, grins.Timothée makes his way over, stumbling a bit.When he gets close enough, the man grabs him by the arm, and pulls him close.

“Quel est ton nom?” he asks.

“Timothée,” Timothée replies, pronouncing it the french way, the correct way.People here can say it, and it’s maybe his favorite thing about this country.

“Antoine.”Antoine.Armie.Timothée closes his eyes.Armie always mocks french accents.

Antoine says something in French, but TImothée is too fucked up to be bothered to translate it, so he just says, “What?

“Do you wanna dance?”

“Yeah.”

They go for a while, and it doesn’t take long for Timothée to get exhausted.His legs are wobbly and his vision is blurry, the alcohol mixing with the exhaustion and fever.The pain in his toe is excruciating, and he can barely hold himself up.He wraps his arms around Antoine’s neck and uses that to support himself.Antoine takes the opportunity to lean down and kiss his neck.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

Timothée smiles.It’s been a while since anyone’s told him that.Now, he mostly gets, _you look like shit._

“How old are you?Sixteen?”

“Twenty.”  
“Oh.”Antoine says, looking a bit disappointed.When Timothée looks back on this moment later, he realizes that should have been a red flag.But he misses it.

“I want another drink.”

“I can give you something better.”

“A drink,” Timothée repeats.

Antoine nods, takes Timothée by the hand and leads him to the bar.He orders for him.His comment makes Timothée nervous, so he dutifully watches his drink after the bartender’s poured it.Antoine doesn’t put anything in it.

“There you go.”

Timothée drinks it quickly, and feels it start to swirl around in his stomach.He’s going to vomit tonight at some point, he thinks to himself with sick satisfaction.He won’t have to do it to himself, his body will do it for him.It’s learned well; it’s good.

They dance for a while longer, and Timothée loses himself in it.He can barely see, can barely hold himself up, can’t keep track of how much time has past.Bodies brush against his, sweaty arms pressed against sweaty arms, feels stumbling over other feet.Like this, he can forget about anything.Like this, he’s happy. 

“You look like you’re dying,” Antoine, leaning close and yelling into Timothée’s ear.

Timothée leans back and stares at Antoine for a second.The hair in front of his face is matted to his forehead, and his pupils are blown.“Maybe I am,” Timothée yells back.

“Really?Are you sick or something?”

“I don’t eat.”

It’s so simple, out loud like that.

Antoine grins.“Cool.”

_Cool._

He takes another sip of his drink—when did he get another?— and then he’s exhausted, suddenly, can’t hold himself can’t—

They’re in the bathroom, the single bathroom, not the type with stalls, the type you go into to hook up, but Antoine’s not pressed against him, he’s not on his knees, no one is on their knees, there’s something white on the counter, there’s—

“Try some.”

Timothée stares.

“You look like the type.”

“I’m not, I don’t—“ _I’m not stupid; I got good grades in school; I went to an Ivy League college, but then I dropped out, I guess; now I’m an actor, now I’ve lost my minds like all actors do, and when actors lose their minds they—_

Well, maybe he’s not that Laguardia good-boy anymore.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Antoine says, and then, there’s this, this urge—

_I decide what I have to do._ Timothée leans down, low against the counter, and inhales quick and hard.It hurts, going down, or up, or whatever, he doesn’t know—it burns, he coughs, he coughs.

And then, after the pain: euphoria.Energy.He can stand on his own again.

“Wow, I feel better.”  
Antoine smiles.“I knew you would. Let’s dance some more.”

They do that for about twenty minutes, and then Antoine asks, “Do you want to go back to my apartment?”

“Where is your apartment?” Timothée asks.

“I’ll take you.”

Within maybe twenty minutes, they’re there. 

It happens fast.He’s attentive, alert, but it happens so fast he doesn’t know how he ends up where he does—on the bed, on his back, shirt off, pants off.

“Beautiful,” Antoine comments.

“Merci.”

They’re kissing, suddenly, and all Timothée can see is a mess of blonde hair, a body that’s bigger than his, stronger than his.There are hands on him large, tan hands with rings, and Timothée mumbles, “Armie.”

“Hmm?”

“Fuck me.”Timothée says.He’s never had sex with another man.

He doesn’t use lube.

It burns, it tears at him; and he feels like he’s being pulled apart, like his skin is peeling off from the inside.It takes everything Timothée has not to cry, not to scream.Be tough.Be strong.You can handle pain.

Somewhere, in the middle of this, Timothée realizes that Armie wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t hurt him like this.It makes him want to stop, but it’s too late, because there are hands around his neck pushing, pressing, squeezing…

He tries to pull apart Antoine’s hands, but he can’t, and he curses himself, his weak body, the alcohol, the cocaine that’s already started to wear off.

“Stop,” Timothée gasps out, but it’s barely audible even to himself; he doubts Antoine’s heard it.“Stop,” he tries again, but he can’t breathe.

God, he’s stupid, he doesn’t even _know_ Antoine, why would he come back here, why would he get into bed with him, he could, he could—

He could kill him.And in this moment, Timothée is acutely aware that he does not want to die.

He begins to cry.

Maybe that’s what makes Antoine release his hands.

Timothée sucks in air in a quick gasp, coughs, gasps again.“ _Stop,”_ he says, loud and clear this time.

Antoine pulls out.“What, you don’t like—“

“No!” Timothée’s screeching suddenly.“Fucking ask someone before you do that, Jesus Christ, I—“

“I thought—“

“Fuck off!”

Timothée pulls on his clothes, marches out the door.Antoine is yelling something, but Timothée slams the door in his face and stumbles out into the city.That’s when it hits him.

He has no idea where he is.

He looks at a street sign but can’t make out the letters.He looks at his phone, tries to open google maps but has no control of his fingers, can barely even see the phone screen.How did this happen?How did this happen so fast, what happened to that energy, that happiness that came when he first snorted the coke, what happened to that happy giddy delirium he felt after his fifth drink, where did that go?How did it become this?

He’s heart has never beat this fast before, he’s never been this afraid before.Every noise he hears, every person that passes him by causes him to jump, to grip his phone—his only lifeline—tight.

He’s cold, suddenly, where is his jacket?What is his shirt—is it buttoned? Are his pants zipped?He can’t tell, it’s so dark.

He stumbles forward, the pain in his toe searing and spreading all the way up his ankle.He’s sweating, hot and cold at the same time, and trips, scraping his palms.He ends up in some—somewhere, there’s grass, trees.Flowers, maybe.His stomach churns, and before he can realize what’s going on, he’s vomiting.On himself, on the ground, everywhere.

He’s overwhelmed by guilt, suddenly, drowning in it, when he realizes what he’s done.When he realizes what he just did to Armie, what he just did to himself.Went off with some monster, called him Armie; it’s an insult, it’s a betrayal, it’s—

Cruel.That’s what he’s been, he’s been cruel, not texting Armie, ignoring him, going off and finding some replacement.And he’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s so scared, so cold, so lost.

The pain in his foot is so bad he has to sit down on the grass.He holds down the home button on his phone.“Call Armie,” he says.The phone doesn’t understand him, his speech is so slurred. “Call Armie.Call Armie.Call Armie.”

Eventually, the phone understands.The phone rings, rings, rings, rings—

Goes to voicemail.

Timothée sobs.“Call Armie,” he tries again.

The phone rings.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up…” Timothée says, repeating it over and over, like a prayer.He keeps saying it for so long, he can barely hear.

“Timmy? Timmy?I picked up.I’m here.Timmy?What’s going on?”

“Armie,” Timothée gasps out.“Armie, Armie, Armie, fuck, fuck, I can’t— I can’t—“

“Timmy, what’s happening?”

“I dunno.Armie, I’m so—I don’t know,” Timothée says, his words unintelligible even to himself.

“Are you okay?”

“ _No.”_

“Are you—Timmy, I can’t, give me something, please.”

“I’m sorry.I’m so sorry, I just did something so bad, I’m so sorry.”

“What did you do?”

“I can’t tell you, but I’m sorry.”

“Did you make yourself throw up again?”

“No.No, this is worse.This is so much worse.”

Armie is quiet for a moment.“Please, please just tell me what’s going on.Just tell me something, anything, please.”

“I’m lost.I’m lost, I — I feel so sick.I’m so tired, and I’m.I’m sorry.I’m sorry.”

“You’re—what time is it in Paris?”  
“I don’t know.”

“Look at your phone.”

“I can’t read the numbers.”

“ _Timmy,”_ Armie says, sounding disapproving.It triggers a fresh round of sobs; he’s _disappointed_ Armie, he must hate him now, and he deserves it, he—

“Timmy, I don’t hate you” Armie says.

Timothée said that out loud?Fuck.

“Okay, please try to explain what happened.”

“I—a club, and there was—this guy, this—I don’t know.There was—fuck.I’m so fucked up.I’m—“ Timothée feels something warm and wet on the back of his pants.“I’m bleeding.”

“You’re _bleeding?_ Did someone hurt you?”

“Yeah.Yeah. Yeah, I—I can’t breathe.”

“Yes you can.Okay?You just gotta count, you know how to do this, okay, I’ll help you, one, two…”

Timothée just sobs, tuning him out.

“Okay, okay, so you’re not gonna calm down, okay, can you tell me where you are?”

“I don’t know, there are—trees.”

“Can you tell me where you’re hurt?”

_No.No.Not that, anything but that._ “I can’t, it’s bad, I’m so sorry, Armie, I’m sorry.It was really bad, I’m so dumb, this is the worst thing I’ve ever done, it’s terrible.”

“I’m not mad at you!Okay, whatever it is, I forgive you, I just want you to be safe, but please, Timmy—“

“There was this guy.He—hurt me, but, it was my fault. I was stupid, I’m always stupid.”

“No, you’re not.You’re not stupid.”

“I’m so fucked up.Armie.Fuck.I’ve never been this drunk before and I’m so—I did.Something bad and it’s going away and now—“ Timothée abruptly drops the phone, leans over and vomits.

Armie’s voice is tinny through the phone.“Timmy?Timmy?”

Timothée picks it back up.“I feel so sick.And tired.Like I’m gonna die.I’m so scared.”

“Do you have any idea where you are right now?”

“No.”

“Can you drop me a pin?”

“A pin?”

“On your phone.Send me your location.”

“No, my fingers don’t work.My foot doesn’t work either, I—I broke it.”

“You _broke your foot?”_

“Not my foot, my—uh.”

“Okay.Okay.”There’s some commotion on the other end of the line, and he can hear Armie say, “Liz?Liz.Call Pauline.It’s an emergency, Timmy’s really—just call her.”

“Armie?”

“Yes.I’m here.Okay?I’m here.Stay on the line with me.”

“I’m so tired,” Timothée says.

“I know, but you can’t fall asleep, okay?Talk to me.”

“I wanna sleep.”

“No, Timothée, do _not fall asleep._ I’m serious.Stay awake.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” Armie says, his voice sounding tight and strange.“Stay with me, okay?I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, you don’t have to do anything but stay awake.You’re gonna be fine.”

“I’m gonna die.”

“No, you’re not.You need to stay awake.”

“I’m gonna die and I wanna be asleep for it.”

“Timothée, _no.”_

“It hurts so bad, I don’t want it to hurt anymore, I wanna sleep.”

“Please, Timmy.”

“I haven’t eaten in so long,” Timothée reveals.If he’s going to die, he needs to confess first, so that he can be absolved.

“What?Timmy, I thought… the movie is over.”

“I like not eating.I’m so tired.”

“Timmy, I swear to God—“

But Timothée drops the phone on the ground.He doesn’t care about Armie’s threats, he’s too tired to care about anything.Anything but himself, the way it’s always been.And he’ll die the way he’s lived, selfishly.

He leans back again the grass.His eyes slip shut.


	8. Chapter 8

Timothée wakes up to an incessant beeping to his left.  He peels his eyes open, blinking against the bright light.  There’s an IV in his arm and a pounding in his head. He turns his head, and the muscles in his neck are so stiff and sore that he can’t hold back a groan.  On his right, Pauline is sitting in a chair, eyes closed.

“Pauline?” Timothée asks, his voice hoarse and barely audible.  It hurts so much to speak that he gives up on it.

He looks around.  Both of his hands are bandaged, bound so tight and so thick that he can barely move them, not that he particularly wants to.  He doesn’t know how they got like that. There’s something wrapped tightly around his left foot, which is throbbing rhythmically, and his ass feels like it’s been ripped in two.  He touches his neck, and remembers bits and pieces of the previous night.

He can’t deal with this right now.  He lets sleep take him back.

The next time Timothée wakes up, Pauline is awake, and holding his hand.

She speaks before he does.  “Timmy?”

He tries to say _yeah,_ but no sound comes out.  He coughs, and tries again.  “Hey.” It’s hoarse and gravelly, but it’s there.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay.  Are mom and dad here?”

Pauline squeezes his hand.  “No. Do you want them here?   They can get on a plane.”

He sighs in relief.  “No. It’s fine.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Timothée thinks for a moment.  “Parts of it,” he decides.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Not really, no.”  His eyes start to slip shut again, he’s so exhausted, but he fights to keep them open.  He owes Pauline that much.

“Okay.  Okay, Timo—“ She shifts in her seat.  “Listen, what we need to know, as soon as possible is—okay, there were um.  Anal contusions? And there are bruises on your neck.”

Tiomthée stares at his blanket in humiliation.  It’s old, he notices, was probably white once, but is now a pale gray.  His own skin isn’t much brighter or darker.

“We need to know if you were raped,” she says it all in one breath, the words smashed together and spit back out and thrown in Timothée’s lap, and he desperately wants it gone, gone from his lap, gone from this room, this hospital, _gone._

“No,” he says, looking away again.

“Okay…” she says, her voice high pitched and melodic, strained.  “Well… I mean, what happened, then?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”  He plays with the frayed end of the scratchy hospital blanket.  He’d like another.

“You can… you can tell me.  I won’t tell mom and dad if you don’t want me to.”

“I wasn’t raped,” Timothée says, his voice strong and steady.  He was— _something._ Violated, maybe.  Assaulted, even, but not raped.  He consented, he knows he did. He was high as fuck and drunk out of his mind but he distinctly remembers telling that monster _yes_ and he hates himself for it.

Pauline falls silent, and doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Timothée takes a deep breath, and finally asks, “So what’s wrong with me?”

Pauline bites her lip.  “I’ll get the doctor.”

Pauline waits outside while the doctor speaks to Timothée.  The doctor tells him he had alcohol poisoning, and they find both cocaine and vicodin in his system.  They had to pump his stomach, which is why his throat feels the way it does. He’s severely underweight, anemic, and deficient in several vitamins as well as calcium and potassium.  As well as all that, his broken toe has gotten infected, so they’ve put him on antibiotics and tell him they want to keep him in the hospital for a few days to make sure the infection doesn’t spread.

The doctor hesitantly brings up the anal contusions, and then asks if he was raped.  Timothée says no. The doctor asks if he does hard drugs on a regular basis. Timothée says no, that this was the first time he’d ever tried it.  The doctor asks what his diet is like. Timothée can’t think of an answer other than, _well, I probably don’t eat enough._

The doctor leaves, and later, a nurse comes by and wordlessly drops off some a few pamphlets on eating disorders.  Timothée stares at them for about twenty minutes, but he never opens them up.

At some point, Pauline tells him he should call their parents and Armie.  Timothée responds to this request by rolling over and closing his eyes.

He falls back asleep.

A strange numbness seems to overcome him in this sterile, white room.  Maybe it’s apathy, maybe it’s resignation. Maybe it’s the knowledge that everyone knows his secret now, and whatever happens next is out of control.  It hasn’t bothered him yet, strangely enough, perhaps because he hasn’t actually been confronted with it yet. Nothing has actually happened.

Well, nothing, until--

Around six, a nurse comes by with dinner.  He picks at it for a while, but under Pauline’s intense gaze, he doesn’t last long.

“Eat,” she says.

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.  Timothée, you’re underweight, you need to eat.”

He tries a different route.  “I’m not hungry.”

“Timmy, come on, this isn’t a joke.  If you don’t eat—“

“I’m not going to eat this,” he says.  He can’t imagine how much water weight he’s gained from the saline drip alone, and with the vitamins in the IV, he should be fine.  The idea of eating a whole meal disgusts him. The food disgusts him, he disgusts himself. He tries to keep his panic under control—if he stays calm, they’ll be less likely to worry and try to make him eat again.

“You have to.”

“I’m not—“

A nurse walks in.  Fuck. “Est-ce que tout va bien?”

“Oui,” Timothée responds, but Pauline is shaking her head.

“Il refuse de manger,” she says.

“Oh,” the nurse says, and then switches to English.  “That’s not good. You need to eat. You’re underweight, and if you don’t eat anything while you’re on antibiotics, you’ll have diarrhea and become even more dehydrated.”

“I don’t care,” Timothée says, his heart beating faster and faster by the second.   _They can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do,_ Timothée tells himself, but it’s not enough to calm him down.  

“What do you mean, you don’t care?” Pauline asks, her voice loud and aggressive.  She’s always been stronger than him. “You realize that you’re actually risking your life—“

“I don’t care!” Timothée screams, desperate.  “I don’t care! I don’t want the food, I’m not fucking eating it!”

“Sweetheart, this isn’t really a choice—“ the nurse starts, but he cuts her off.

“I’m not eating it!”  He shoves the tray of food off of the table and it all scatters around the room.

“Alright, let’s calm down, let’s just—“

“No!” Timothée screeches.  “I’m not gonna calm down, you’re all trying to fucking force-feed me, I’m not eating it!  You can’t make me eat it!”

He continues to scream and cry like a two year old for about twenty minutes, hating himself all the while, until he works himself up so much that he can’t breathe and can’t stop shaking.  The nurse puts something in his IV, and he falls out of consciousness after that.

When Timothée comes to, sun is shining through the blinds and Pauline is on the phone outside of his room.  He can make out some of what she says.

“No, I… he’s sleeping. … No, I’m not gonna wake him up.  … Because he’s sick! … When he wants to… I can barely get him to talk to me, so I don’t think it’s gonna happen… Listen, getting him to talk to you isn’t my first priority right now.  Maybe after he speaks to our mom and dad…”

She walks back into the room, and startles when she sees him sitting up in bed.  “Oh. You’re up.”

Timothée nods.

“You’re in high-demand.”

“What?”

“Armie wants to speak to you.  I told him he can wait until you’re ready, but… you need to call mom and dad.”

He buries his head in his hands.  Armie wants to speak to him. God, this whole thing is embarrassing.  Calling Armie at four in the morning, out of his mind, saying God-knows-what, passing out in the middle of the park like a fucking alcoholic… He doesn’t understand why Armie would want to talk to him at all, after all that.

Pauline reaches out and takes Timothée’s hand.  “Timmy. They’re worried. If you wanna avoid Armie, then, fine.  It’s stupid, but whatever. But you have to talk to mom and dad.”

Timothée shakes his head.

“I didn’t tell them about the cocaine or the Vicodin.  And I’m not planning on it. Because I know that’s not the real problem here.”

“Thanks.”

“So they’re not going to be mad at you.  You don’t need to worry about that.”

She thrusts his phone at him, and he hesitantly takes it.  Then, Pauline leaves, ostensibly to give him some privacy.

His father is the one who answers the phone.  “Timothée?”

“Oui, c’est moi.”

“Hold on, let me get your mom.”

There’s some movement, and then, his mother’s voice.  “Timmy?”

“Hi.”

“How are you, sweetheart?”

“I’m okay,” he says.

“Are you sure you don’t want us to come to Paris?  Pauline said you’d be in the hospital until the infection clears up.”

“It’ll just be a few days, it’s fine.”

“We need to talk about what the next steps are.” That’s his father.

“The next steps?”

“Well, you need to come home, obviously.  Or we can come to Paris, but we’d prefer you to be in New York.  Either way, you’re not just gonna be by yourself.”

“Well, okay…” Timothée says quietly, playing with the sheets of the bed.

“We’d like you to stay with us.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Timmy, Pauline said that you’ve been refusing to eat.  And that you’re underweight and… and the doctors think you have an eating disorder.”

 _Eating disorder._ He has a lot of trouble connecting those two words and applying them to himself.  Teenage girls who want to make themselves prettier get eating disorders. Not adult men.

“Listen, I won’t drop off the planet, but I’m not living with you guys.  I’m an adult.”

“We know you are, honey,” his mother says. “But you’re sick.  And we’re your parents, so let us take care of you.”

“I won’t be sick once I get out of the hospital.  They said the antibiotics will fix the infection.”

“You know that’s not what we mean.”

“I don’t—I don’t.”  Timothée pauses, takes a breath.  He can’t get worked up again. No one will take him seriously if he does that.  “I really don’t know what you mean. I don’t have an eating disorder.”

“Timothéee-“ his father starts, but his mom cuts him off.

“Alright, baby, we didn’t say you did.  Okay? We don’t know anything besides the fact that you’re underweight and deficient in a lot of vitamins.  So, you can just come home and talk to a doctor and see what they have to say, alright? No one’s diagnosing you with anything right now.”  She speaks gently, slowly, the way she used to when he was five and upset about something stupid.

Part of Timothée feels demeaned, patronized, embarrassed, and another part of him wants to curl up in her arms and let her tell him that everything will be alright and coax him into sleep.  “Okay,” he says, his voice small, and then realizes exactly what he’s agreeing to. “I really don’t—I really would rather live in my own apartment. I’ll see a doctor. But I want to live by myself. That—that matters to me.”

“Why?”

Why?  Because it gives some semblance of normalcy.  Because it’s the only thing left from his life before it completely spun out of control.  Because it makes him feel like an adult, rather than a pathetic, hopeless child.

“It just matters to me, okay?  I’ll call you every day. And we can see each other often but I—please.”

“I don’t feel comfortable with that,” his father says.

“I’m over eighteen,” Timothée reminds them, strong in his resolve now.  “You can’t make me do anything.”

“We’re still your parents, and we can—“

Suddenly, he has an idea. A sick, cruel idea, that he doesn’t actually know if he’ll follow through on, but he tries it out anyway.  “If you continue to pressure me into moving in with you, I won’t see a doctor.”

“Timmy…”

“I won’t.  I’m serious.  I’m going to the doctor because you guys are worried, that’s it.  And I won’t do it for you if you’re gonna keep trying to do this.”

Both of his parents are silent for a moment.  His mother speaks first. “I’m sure you’re tired and not feeling great right now.  Why don’t you get some rest and we can talk about this later?”

“I’m not going to change my mind, so you can stop talking to me like I’m a fucking crazy person.  Or a five year old.”

“I’m not treating you like a crazy person, but you’re sick, and we can talk about this when you’re feeling better.”

“Fine.”

“Alright.  I love you,” his mom says.

“I love you too.”

“Je t’aime,” his dad says.

“Je t’aime aussi.”

Timothée hangs up, and looks through his phone for the first time since he’s been in the hospital.  There’s a text from Armie and a bunch of texts from Elizabeth. More scared of Armie’s texts, he opens Elizabeth’s first.

_Hey T, heard that you’re in the hospital and am wishing you the best.  Hope you have a speedy recovery. I’m always here if you need someone to talk to.  Love you xxx_

Timothée scoffs.  Always here, huh? _Thanks, Elizabeth, I think I’ll call you for a heart to heart about how I’m in love with your husband._ That should go over well.

He closes his eyes in guilt.  He shouldn’t mock her, even in his head.  She’s been nothing but kind to him, and he’s the one that’s doing something wrong, anyway, wanting a married man.  He looks at her as a competitor, sometimes, and sometimes even as a traitor. But logically, he knows that he is the traitor, the betrayer, the one who would hurt a woman who has been steadfastly loyal and there for him, who has treated him like a son since the moment they met, and who wants nothing more than to make sure that he is okay.

He types back: _Hey liz! Thanks for checking in, i’m feeling a lot better.  I’m probably leaving the hospital in a couple days. Love you too!!_ He presses send, and then, a moment later, adds on _tell Harper hi from me and that i love her please_

Elizabeth’s response is almost immediate.   _You got it.  call me when you’re feeling up to it?_

 _Of course,_ Timothée answers, meaning it.  He does enjoy talking to her, when he can think past his jealousy.  He’ll call her later, but first, he has another call to make.

He answers on the first ring.  “Hello?”

Timothée takes a deep breath.  “Hey, Armie.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry for what i'm about to do to you all but it's a necessary evil
> 
> okay you may proceed

“Timmy...” Armie sounds breathless, tense.  “How are you? How are you feeling?”

Armie’s voice makes Timothée shudder , makes tears well up in his eyes.  It feels like watching a movie that stars a recently-dead actor, or looking at old pictures of a best friend from middle school.  Like something from a bygone era, a memory that’s grown distant because it hurts too much to remember it vividly.  
“I’m okay...” Timothée says, his voice quiet, noncommittal.  He doesn’t feel like he knows how to talk to Armie at all anymore, let alone in a situation like this.  It strikes him that he has no plan for this conversation, and, subsequently, has handed all of the power over to Armie.  “How are you?”  
“I’m--I’m fine.  This isn’t really about me, though,” Armie says.  “I wish you had called earlier. Pauline says you’ve been up.”  
Timothée closes his eyes, the guilt hitting him hard.  He always enjoys talking to Armie, but this is more stressful than anything.  “Uh, yeah, I, um. I’ve been really tired, and not feeling well. I’ve been taking like, eight naps a day,” he says, forcing a laugh.

“Nice.  Nice. So you’ve joined the ranks of Harper and the other toddlers.”

“Yeah,” Timothée answers, though he hates the comparison.  He hates whenever Armie reminds him of the age difference between the two of them, even if it’s only in jest.

“But, uh, seriously, Tim.  Are you feeling okay? Because Pauline said that you’re pretty sick.  And... you kinda scared the shit out of me. It was--well, you probably don’t even remember it, but it was fucking horrible, T.  Hearing you like that. I thought you were gonna die,” Armie says, his voice breaking on the last sentence.

Timothée sighs.  He hates that this is affecting other people, that he is making this whole... _thing_ other people’s burden to bear.  This is his problem, not Armie’s, and he shouldn’t be causing him this much distress.  “I’m sorry for calling you that night,” Timothée says quietly. “I shouldn’t have done that.  It was wrong.”

Armie is quiet for long enough that Timothée thinks the call may have dropped.  Then, he says, “Are you fucking kidding me?”  
_Fuck._ Of course he would want more than that.  Of course a simple _I’m sorry_ doesn’t even come close to making up for the stress he put him through.  “No,” Timothée says quickly, stumbling over his words. “I--I shouldn’t have called you that night.  I didn’t mean to upset you, I should’ve just, dealt with it myself and--”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Timothée falls silent.

“Listen to me,” Armie says, his voice firm and aggressive.  Dominant. A bit scary. “Calling me that night was probably the only decent thing you’ve done for me, or yourself, or anyone else in months.  Okay? You have a lot of things to apologize for, but that isn’t one of them. If you genuinely believe that _that_ is why I’m mad at you, then your perception of me is seriously warped.”

“Then what are you mad at me for?” Timothee asks, desperate to know exactly what he’s dealing with.  With all the horrible things he’s done the past few months, it could really be anything.  
“Jesus.  I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’ve been lying to everyone for months?  Acting like everything is fine, pretending like no one gives a shit about you when almost everyone you know has reached out to you and asked if you’re okay?”

“I--fuck, I’m sorry, I’m--”

“No, let me talk.  I flew across the country for you, because you told me you needed me.  And then I get there, and you lie! You promised me that it wasn’t a problem, and I believed you, because I thought that I could trust you.  Apparently I can’t.”

“You can trust me, I just--”

“Shut up!” Armie roars.  “Let me fucking finish! And then, when I offer to come to New York again--no, not offer, I fucking tell you that I _want_ to go there, that I _want_ to see you, that I’m worried and wanna make sure that you’re okay, you leave the country!”

The room is cold, and very quiet.  Timothée expected Armie to be angry, but not like this.  He’s never yelled at him like this before, and it feels earth-shattering, like it’s the end of everything.  He doesn’t know how to handle it, doesn’t know where to put it, whether to dodge it or endure. The only thing he can do is is sit and listen, his heart thumping arrhythmically, fast and hard.

“You don’t reply to my texts, you go out and fucking--I dunno.  I don’t even fucking know what stupid shit you did. Cocaine, Tim?  And fucking Vicodin? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Timothée assumes it’s a rhetorical question, so he stays silent.

“Answer me!”

Timothée jolts, realizing he’s made yet another mistake.  “I--I dunno. I’m stupid. I’m sorry.”

Normally, when Timothée insults himself, Armie is quick to call him on it and deny it having any truth.  But he seems to agree today, because he just moves on. “And you go off with some--some guy, I don’t even know, but that was just stupidly dangerous, I don’t know what you were thinking--”

Timothée abruptly and desperately needs this to _stop._ He knows, he _knows,_ that what happened was his fault, but he can’t deal with Armie telling him so, he can’t.  “Stop, stop!”

Armie goes silent for a second.  “What?”

“Stop, I don’t want to talk about him, I don’t want to talk about that.  Stop.”

“No.  You don’t just get to pick and choose what we talk about anymore, because if it was up to you, we wouldn’t talk about any of this at all.”

Timothée feels tears start to well up in his eyes, partially because Armie’s anger is terrifying and almost physically painful, heavy in a way he’s never felt before, and partially because he knows that Armie is right.  If he were left to his own devices, he’d probably be ten pounds thinner, high on Vicodin with an infection spreading from his toe to his ankle, and slowing withering away. And the thought horrifies him.

“I am just so fucking confused about what happened to you.  You’re like a completely different person. You have changed so much, and I don’t know how to handle you, or what I’m supposed to say to you, or anything.  You’re supposed to be my goddamn best friend and now, now I can’t even think of you or talk about you without wanting to cry, because it’s like you’re not even there anymore!  It’s like you’re dead. Who you used to be is dead. You killed him. And I don’t understand why.”

“I’m sorry,” Timothée whispers.  It’s all he can manage.

“I don’t think you actually are, is the thing.  I think that you say you are because you don’t like that I’m mad at you, but if it wasn’t for me being mad, would you actually stop doing this stuff?  Do you even want to?” Armie’s voice is wavering, perhaps scared under all the anger, but Timothée can barely hear it. All he can hear is disappointment and contempt.

Timothée says nothing, because he’s scared of the honest answer, and because he doesn’t want to lie anymore.

“Do you realize that when you pull this shit, you’re not just hurting yourself, you’re hurting everyone around you.  Me, Pauline, your parents... Jesus, do you even understand what you’re putting them through?” He’s loud, domineering, and Timothée can imagine him pacing back and forth in his house, red-faced and narrow-eyed, ignoring Elizabeth and Harper and whoever else may be home.

“I don’t know,” Timothée admits, his voice small.

“I mean, I can’t even imagine it.  As a father, I couldn’t even--I don’t even know how I’d handle something like this, and it’s like you don’t even care!  You just keep doing it! And you don’t give a fuck what it does to anyone else!”

“I care,” Timothée protests weakly.

“No, you clearly don’t!  Because you just fucking ignore me for weeks and then call me crying, beyond fucked up, tell me that you’re dying, in the middle of Paris--what was I supposed to do?  I’m in L.A., what could I possibly have done for you? Why didn’t you call me before it got that bad? So that I don’t have to get a phone call like that. God, Timmy, I thought you were gonna die!  And there was nothing I could do besides call Pauline and hope for the best. I just stayed on the phone and talked to you, until you just stopped talking.” Armie’s voice cracks again, and Timothée is certain now that Armie is crying on the other end of the line, yelling through it because he knows that Timothée can’t see his face.

“I don’t--”

Armie interrupts him.  “I could hear everything.  When you threw up, I could hear it, and I could hear it when you fell.  And then, when you--when you passed out, you didn’t hang up, you just dropped the phone, so I--I stayed on the line and tried to listen.  To hear if you were still breathing, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell if you were or not.”

Timothée has nothing to say to that, so he stays quiet.

“I thought that I was listening to you die.”

Timothée gulps.  He wants to hang up, hide under his blanket and never talk to anyone again, but he can’t move, can’t release his grip on the phone.

“Do not ever do that to me again.  Okay? It’s fucked up. Was this all, like, some type of cry for help?”

Timothée doesn’t answer.  He doesn’t know the answer.

“Because you could’ve just fucking texted me! Or called me!  Like I have been _begging you to_ for months.  And then I could’ve helped you, and this never would have happened in the first place! I mean, Jesus, Tim, how many times do I need to tell you that you can talk to me?  That I _want_ you to talk me?”

“I don’t know.  I’m sorry.”

“What are we doing wrong here?  What more do you want? Because I really don’t ask much of you, Timmy.  All I want is for you to be honest about when you need help because I’m not a fucking mind-reader, and it’s pretty much impossible to tell what’s going on with you when you just go off the grid.  You have to communicate”

Timothée doesn’t reply.  He’s really crying, now. Quietly sobbing, unsure if Armie can hear it, unsure if Armie cares.

“Because I really don’t know what to do.  What you’re doing is fucked up, and selfish, and illogical, and... It’s destroying everyone.  It’s not fair. I don’t even know--I don’t even know who you are now, but I hate it. I can’t trust you anymore, all you do is lie and manipulate people and then when we call you on it, you--”

“Please stop,” Timothée says, in barely more than a whisper.  He can’t seem to raise his voice beyond that, he’s so breathless and overwhelmed.  “Please stop yelling at me, please, I’m sorry, just please stop.”

“Fucking hell, Timmy, after all the shit that you pull, I’m not allowed to get mad?  What kind of double-standard is that?”

“Please, I’m sorry...”  He can’t handle this anymore.  He can’t--it hurts.

“Honestly, Timmy, there are so many people who love you, and you still do shit like this.  Me, and Pauline, and your parents, and Elizabeth--we’re all fucking there for you, but it’s not enough?”

“No, it’s enough, it’s enough,” Timothée says, sobbing out each word.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Armie keeps talking, but Timothée can barely hear him, or maybe he just tunes him out; he doesn’t know.  He just keeps crying.

At that moment, Pauline walks back into the hospital room with a bag and an iced coffee.  She stares at Timothée, wide-eyed, and drops the bag on the floor. Frantically, she snatches Timothée’s phone from his hand and brings it to her ear.

“What are you doing?” she spits out.  “What are you saying to him?” Staying on the phone, she grabs her bag and drops it in Timothée’s lap, then leaves the room.

Timothée is left alone on his bed, his shuttering breath the only sound in an otherwise empty room, the blood in his cuticles the only color.  He tries to calm himself down, knowing that if he doesn’t, a nurse will probably walk in with a sedative, and he hates that, hates someone else controlling his consciousness.  He needs to get in control of his body before someone else does it for him.

He remembers being fifteen years old, crying this hard and breathing this erratically over something as trivial as a geometry test, and holding his mother’s hand as she counted his breathing for him.   _Breathe in for four, hold for seven, out for eight._ He repeats it until the conversation with Armie is a dull roar instead of a close screech.  Still an unpleasant sound, yes, but quieter, easier to handle.

Timothée looks through the bag on his lap.  In it, Pauline has packed his laptop, a couple books, his hair products, and a bear.  Pauline’s teddy bear from when she was a kid, he realizes. She gave to him.

He places the bear on the pillow, and climbs out of bed.  It’s the first time he’s walked since he’s gotten to the hospital, and his legs are shaky and weak.  The brace on his toe covers the entire inside of his foot, leaving him mostly unable to move it and forcing him to limp slightly.  It’s slow going, and definitely uncomfortable, but eventually he makes it to his destination: the bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror.

He looks--well, he doesn’t even know anymore.  His frame of reference is gone. But he runs his fingers through his hair, undoing the knots gently, and squeezes a bit of his hair gel into his palm.  Then, he works it into his hair, the way he always does when he gets dressed up. He forces himself to smile in the mirror, so he can remember what that looks like, so he can remember what that feels like.

It hurts.

Physically, it hurts.  The muscles in his face fatigue quickly, and what was the point of this, anyway?  He knows he isn’t going anywhere. He walks back to the bed, crawls back in it, and closes his eyes.

He can still hear Pauline on the phone outside his room, speaking quickly and angrily, probably lecturing Armie about upsetting him and how he’s sick and all of that.  He misses the days when Armie didn’t have to treat him with child-gloves. When Armie would look at him with love instead of concern,when he would wrestle with him until he was pinned against the ground and they were both giggling.

He wishes he could to go back to the way things were.   When he would sit in the car, Armie and Elizabeth in front, he and the kids in the back, and he was satisfied with that.  Happy with that. When he felt like Armie’s love alone could protect him from anything in the world, when he felt like he was a part of their family, and so what if Elizabeth treated him like a little kid?  She fucking loved him. Even if she did it weird, it was still love. And it was happy, the three of them were happy. It was strange and unconventional and he misses it, he misses just being Armie’s friend and not wanting anything more than that.  Before he wanted so much, before he wanted more than he could handle. He misses the simplicity. Because that simple love never hurt, and this love does.

Because now there’s a part of him that hates Elizabeth, and there’s even a part of him that hates Armie, for forcing these feelings into him, for making him love him in a way he couldn’t return.  He can hear Pauline yelling at Armie on the phone, and he remembers how Armie’s voice cracked between yells, and he thinks: _You’ll never love me back.  And that hurts more than I could ever hurt you._

_***_

Within a few days, Timothée is discharged from the hospital, ordered to finish his round of antibiotics, take a daily multivitamin and iron tablet, and it is _highly suggested_ that he starts taking nutritional supplements to increase his calorie intake.  He flies home almost immediately. Pauline can’t look after him properly, she tearfully admits, as much as she would like to.  He doesn’t blame her. She can’t do it alone, and he thinks she should probably be focusing on her career anyway.

His parents offer to pick him up at the airport.  He tells them no thank you. His parents ask him to stay with them for a while.  He tells them no. His parents beg him to stay with them for just one night, the night he gets back from the airport.  He tells them no, and that he will go over the next day, but he just really wants to sleep in his own bed.

Truthfully, he couldn’t give a shit about the bed.  He just wants to be alone for a night, after constantly being observed and watched and and checked in on for the four days he was in the hospital.  His parents both sound like they may cry, but he’s cried nearly non stop the entire time he’s been in the hospital, so he’s grown a bit desensitized to it.

Walking through the airport is somewhat difficult.  He’s wobbly on his feet after days of barely moving, and after all of this, he’s still surprised by his own weakness, his own lack of stamina.  How did he get so frail? How did he get so sick? He can’t walk properly with the splint on his foot, but walking without it is too painful to bear.  His hands are still bandaged--they’ve got stitches, apparently he fell on a blade or a sharp rock or something when he fell that night--so it’s not easy to carry the suitcase either.  Still, he manages.

The plane flight is no easier.  The turbulence is awful, shaking the plane almost as much as it shakes him.  Because they are on their way back to America, instead of from America, the flight attendants won’t serve him alcohol, so he has to deal with the whole thing completely sober.

He doesn’t sleep at all.

When he lands in New York, he feels a sudden and almost debilitating wave of loneliness and dread, similar to the way he felt the night before his first day of freshman year of high school, except far more intense.  He shoves it down deep inside him and tries to forget about it. He needs to go on with his life.

He expects to walks off the plane and through the gate.  He wants to grab his suitcase, call an uber, and pass out in his apartment.  But when he steps out of the gate and into the airport, he gets something different.  Because standing there, near baggage claim, looking at him expectantly, is Armie.


	10. Chapter 10

Timothée’s mouth falls open slightly when he sees Armie, and he has to hold himself back from stopping dead in his tracks.  Armie seems to have already seen Timothée, because he’s staring at him and smiling. A big smile, a truly genuine one--Timothée can tell the real from the fake by now--but something about it seems off.  Twitchy. Timothée doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t understand a lot of of Armie, right now.

He walks slowly towards Armie, almost afraid.  He forces a smile to match Armie’s, but it wobbles and falls from his face after a moment.  “Hey,” he ventures, when he’s close enough for Armie to hear him.

Armie gives a small, short laugh.  “Hey,” he returns, and pulls Timothée into a hug.  It’s soft, and tender, and more like a hug between Oliver and Elio than between Armie and Timmy.  He wraps his arms over Timothée’s shoulders and squeezes him tightly and gently. Then, he lifts one arm across Timothée’s back and places his hand on the back of Timothée’s head,  burying his fingers in the curls.

He holds him there for perhaps a few seconds too long, considering they’re in public.

Then, he releases Timothée and steps back, looking at him square in the face.  His eyes fall down to the ring of bruises around Timothée’s neck, and his expression falters, but then he looks back up at his face.  “You cut your hair.”   


“Yeah,” Timothée says, a bit surprised.  He almost forgot about that.

“It looks nice.”  Armie moves his hand forward to ruffle the hair in front of Timothée’s face, but when his fingers brush against Timothée’s forehead, he jolts and steps back.  “You still have a fever.”

“Oh, I, yeah.”  The admission makes him insecure, somehow, as if a fever is some type of failure.  “It’s gone down a lot since I was in the hospital, though, so it’s okay.”

“The doctor said that it’s okay?”   


“Yeah.  Yeah, I’m not done with the antibiotics yet, so the infection hasn’t totally cleared up but like, it’s to be expected.  He said not to worry.”

“And you feel okay?”

“I’m okay.  What are you--” He takes a second to catch his breath.  “What are you doing here?”

Armie blinks slowly and smiles, as if it’s obvious.  “To pick you up.”

“But you live in L.A.”

“I thought I’d come and stay with you for a while.  To just... you know, keep an eye on you.” He tugs at Timothée’s arm.  “Come on, we gotta get your suitcase.”

Armie tucks Timothée under his arm and keeps him there as they walk through the airport together.  Armie keeps staring at Timothée’s neck, then abruptly looking away when Timothée catches him. Timothée’s breathless, wobbly on his feet from both tiredness and the shock of seeing Armie.  He doesn’t know what to expect from this visit, and he’s a little scared of it. Will Armie yell at him again once they’re in private? He doesn’t understand. After that phone call, Timothée thought that Armie must hate him, but that clearly isn’t the case if he’s here.  He can’t keep track of it all, and the confusion nearly wipes him out.

“How was your flight?”   


“Turbulent as hell.  Didn’t sleep at at all.”

He’s dead on his feet, and it doesn’t help that Armie is ridiculously tall and seems so subconsciously expect Timothée to keep up with his quick, long strides.  Timothée keeps stumbling over his injured foot, only staying upright because of Armie’s tight grip on his arm, and eventually he has to ask him to slow down. “My foot,” he supplies, when Armie looks at him in confusion.

Armie’s face drops.  “Oh, shit,” he says. “Fuck, I’m sorry.  I didn’t--I didn’t realize I was walking that fast, I thought it was just--”

“It’s fine,” Timothée says, shocked and embarrassed by how badly Armie seems to feel over this.

“Was I hurting you?”

“No.  I just--I can’t really move it that well, so I can’t walk very fast.  Don’t worry about it.”

They walk to baggage claim at a markedly slower pace.  When they got there, Timothée makes to pick his suitcase off the conveyor belt, but Armie gently pushes in front of him and grabs it himself.  Timothée takes the handle and starts to pull it along, but Armie almost immediately grabs it from him.

“I got it.”

“Are you sure?  I can--”   


“Your hands are--” Armie shakes his head.  “Just let me get it, okay?”

“Okay,” Timothée says reluctantly.  “Thanks.”

Armie places one hand on the small of Timothée’s bag and starts walking.  Timothée expects them to walk towards the exit to take the subway and walk home, but instead, Armie leads them to the parking garage.

“I rented a car,” Armie says, sensing Timothée’s confusion.  “Just for a few days. I just figured, with your foot, it’d be better to drive than walk.”

“Oh,” Timothée says.  He’s shocked by the amount of thought that Armie has put into this.  How long ago did he decide to come? Who did he discuss it with? Why did he even want to come?

As soon as Timothée sits down, the fatigue from the day hits him, and he has to struggle to keep his eyes open.  He pinches the damaged skin on his palms to keep himself awake.

Once Armie is settled into the driver’s seat, he looks over at Timothée and says, “I really missed you.”

It’s so sweet, so kind, and so much more than Timothée deserves.  This persistent gentleness that Armie has suddenly acquired makes him uneasy, because he knows he’s not worthy of it.  He’s only worthy of being screamed at by Armie, if not being totally ignored. Timothée can only give him a tight-lipped smile in return.   “How long are you planning on staying?”

“I’m not sure exactly.  I guess until things are better with you, and you’re, you know, safe.  I don’t really think you should be alone right now, so...” Armie trails off, and his expression falters as he looks at Timothée.  What flashes across his face is insecurity, Timothée realizes. Not covered with anger, or boistering charisma, just open, unobscured doubt.  “Are you happy I came here?”

Timothée softens at that.  “Of course. Of course, I--” He reaches out and shoves Armie’s shoulder, knowing that any affection more tender than that will give him away.  “I always wanna see you. I just--it’s unexpected.”

Armie pulls out the parking spot and starts to drive.  He looks straight ahead, not at Timothée, so Timothée does the same.

“Well, surprise, I guess,” Armie says.

Fuck.  He’s offended.

“I just... I didn’t think that you would wanna see me?  After the phone call, you were so mad at me, I just... I don’t know.”

Armie opens his mouth, closes it.  Opens it again. “I’m not...  _ mad at you  _ in the way you think I am.”

“So what way are you mad in?”   


“I’m mad in a way that you don’t have to worry about, okay?”

“Okay,” Timothée says slowly.  “It just... I don’t get it? It seemed like you hated me, the way you were yelling, and what you were saying.”

Armie grips the steering wheel tight and sighs.  “Look, I’m sorry about that phone call. I didn’t... I didn’t mean to make you think that I hate you.  Jesus. No. That was not the point of it.” He pauses for a moment, making a turn. “I shouldn’t have... You were sick.  You were in the hospital, and I shouldn’t have screamed at you like that. I should’ve handled it better. But I want to be clear: I stand by everything I said.”

Timothée’s eyes drop to his lap.  So he stands by all of it. He stands by calling him stupid, selfish, illogical, a manipulative liar.  He stands by saying that he can no longer trust Timothée, can no longer even tell who he is. He meant all of that.  He still does.

“Hey,” Armie says, reaching out and placing a hand on Timothée’s forearm.  “Don’t get--Listen, all I’m saying is, what you’ve been doing is wrong. Okay?  That behavior is not okay.”

Timothée rolls his eyes.  “Yeah, okay,  _ Dad.” _

Armie laughs.  “Yeah, that was a really dad-like sentence, wasn’t it?”   


“Yes,” Timothée answers, yawning.

“I’m serious though.”

“I know you are.  Uh, I dunno what your plans are, but I was gonna go over to my parents’ place for breakfast tomorrow.  They, like, wanna talk to me.”   


“Yeah, I know.”

“You know?”   


“They told me.”

“Oh.”  Timothée wonders what else they tell each other.

The second they hit the highway, they’re stuck in bumper to bumper traffic.  Armie groans, and Timothée rubs his eyes and slumps down in his seat.

“You can sleep, if you want,” Armie offers.  “It looks like it’s gonna be a while.”  
Timothée nods gratefully and reclines his seat back so he’s almost lying down.  A few moments after he closes his eyes, he thinks he can feel a gentle hand against his face, cool knuckles brushes against his cheekbone.

He’s out like a light.

He wakes up to Armie shaking his shoulder, repeating, “Hey, wake up.  We’re home.”

Timothée groans and turns his head to the side, trying to drown at the noise.

Armie laughs.  “Timmy. Come on.  Don’t you wanna sleep in your bed instead of in a car?”   


“Don’t care,” Timothée mumbles, his eyes closed.

Armie tugs at him.  “Come on, you’re not gonna make me carry you, are you?”

Timothée doesn’t plan on answering, but he suddenly feels a a hand under this knees and another under his shoulders.  “What are you doing?”

Armie just laughs, and lifts him out of the car.

Timothée is suddenly completely awake and utterly mortified, wiggling and Armie’s grasp and trying to get loose.   _ Armie carrying him up the stairs,  _ yeah, that’s a level of humiliation he definitely doesn’t need.

“Stop, you’re gonna make me drop you,” Armie says, laughing between each word.

“Just let me down,” Timothée responds, his voice monotone, deadly serious.  “I can walk.”

“Okaaaay...” Armie says, clearly shocked at the sudden change of tone.  He tenderly places Timothée down on his feet. Still, he keeps a hand on Timothée’s lower back as they walk up the stairs together.

Timothée tries to make it up the stairs in one go, he really does, but, well, it doesn’t quite work out.  About halfway through, he has to pause and grab the handrails, squeezing his eyes shut. He takes a deep breath, trying to regain his energy.

“What’s wrong?”   


“Just my foot,” Timothée forces out.  “And the fever.”  _ It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m severely underweight and deficient in just about everything and haven’t eaten a full meal in weeks.  Nothing so sinister as that. _

“I got you,” Armie says, tucking his arm under Timothée shoulders and taking about half of his weight.

“No,” Timothée replies, forceful and fast.  “I’m fine. Just give me a second.”

They wait on the staircase together for Timothée to catch his breath.  He can hear Armie sit down on the stairs beside him and sigh, wrapping his hand around Timothée’s ankle and massaging it tenderly with his thumb.  He leans his head against the outside of Timothée’s thigh, humming.

“ _ Timmyyyyyy,”  _ he sings, “ _ Let me help yoooouuuuu.” _

Timothée takes a deep breath and stands up straight. “I’m good now.  I’m good. Let’s go.”

They make it up the rest of the stairs without issue, although Timothée can feel Armie’s concerned gaze on his back. He can’t see it, but he’s almost certain that Armie is staring at his bruised neck.  He’s just grateful he hasn’t asked about it yet. When enter the apartment, Timothée makes a B-line for the bathroom and gets straight in the shower.

When he steps out of the bathroom, clad in pajama pants and a tee-shirt, he smells something pungent.  He finds the source within seconds: Armie, in the kitchen, standing over a pot at the stove. Fuck.

“Hey,” Armie says, scooping some soup into a bowl.  “Here, have some.”

“You cooked this?” Timothée asks timidly, walking over on trembling legs.

“Yeah.  It’s Liz’s recipe, actually.  Just chicken noodle.”

Timothée leans against the counter.  “I, uh, I actually already ate. There was dinner on the plane.”  
Armie sighs, grips the counter top tight.  Without looking up, he says, “You don’t seriously think I’m gonna fall for that, do you?”

Timothée swallows.  It’s useless, but he can’t stop trying.  “I’m really... I’m really not hungry right now.”

Armie looks at him.  “This isn’t a discussion.  You’re eating it.”

Timothée blinks.  Swallows. Blinks again.  He knows there’s nothing he can do, no way he can convince Armie he doesn’t need to eat.  So all he can do is beg. “Please,” he says, his voice breaking, “I can’t.”

Armie’s face softens.  “I know it’s hard, but you can.  Come on. Just a few bites. I’ll eat some too.”  He sets two bowls down at the kitchen table and takes a seat.  Timothée reluctantly follows.

He mixes the soup around in his bowl for a few seconds, trying to estimate the calories.  “I haven’t eaten meat in a while,” he admits, “I think it’ll hurt my stomach.”

“So just eat the noodles and the broth.  Okay? We can go slow tonight. It’s late.”

_ Tonight.   _ Meaning tomorrow, he’ll have to eat the chicken.  Fuck.

“Please don’t make me.”

“Timmy.  This isn’t a game.  Okay? You don’t just get to do whatever you want anymore.  Things are gonna be different now. I’m gonna be better. I’m gonna look out for you. But you have to be better too.”

Timothée stares down at his soup, pushing it back and forth with his spoon..  So this will be everyday now. There’s nothing he can do, nowhere he can hide.  Everyone knows now. Maybe that’s what he gets for passing out in the middle of nowhere like some druggie.  Maybe that’s what he gets for being such a shitty liar. Maybe that’s what he gets for signing on to do a role that he knew was going to be too big for him to handle.

And maybe that’s what he gets for losing control that night.  You lose it once, and no one wants to let you get it back.

Armie slams his hand down on the table, shaking the bowls so badly that some of the soup spills out.  “Eat. The fucking. Soup.”

Timothée blinks at him, and says simply, “I don’t want to.”  
Armie lets out a shaky exhale, his nostrils flaring like a bull.  “I don’t give a shit. You need to eat it. And if you refuse to, I will hold you down and force-feed it to you.”

Timothée stares at him, wide-eyed.  “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.  Because I really don’t care whether that pisses you off, or humiliates you, or makes you hate me.  What I care about is whether or not you live or die.”

“I’m not gonna die.”

Armie stares at him.  “If you haven’t realized yet that what you’re doing will kill you, then the malnourishment has definitely caused some brain damage, because you did not use to be this stupid.”

Timothée’s mouth opens slightly, the words hitting him like a slap across the face.  “You think I’m stupid?” he asks, small, quiet.

Something flashes acrosses Armie’s face; Timothée doesn’t know what it is.  This Armie--this angry Armie, this scared Armie--is nothing like the one he knows.  He can’t tell what he’s thinking at all anymore. “Just eat the soup.”

Timothée nods. Deep down, he knows Armie is right.  But eating is so hard for him now that it almost physically hurts to bring the spoon to his mouth and swallow.  Still, he manages. He looks up at Armie with raised eyebrows. “Okay?”

“More,” Armie demands, unamused.

Timothée continues eating, asking Armie after every bite if he can stop.  Each bite burns, every noodle a wire cutter, each drop of broth acid. He hates the feeling of it filling his stomach, hates that his body is no longer screaming at him in pain.  Armie doesn’t understand that this hurts him more than he hurts himself. He doesn’t understand that the pain of an empty stomach brings him more peace than any type of comfort food could.  The emptiness is his only friend, the only cure for loneliness. And he is betraying it.

When he finishes half of the soup, he gets up and walks away from the table.

“Where are you going?  You’re not done.”   


“I’m full.  I’m not eating anymore.”

“Timmy, you only ate half.”

“I haven’t eaten this much at one time in months.  Okay? I’m full.”

“I don’t care, you need to eat more.”

“I can’t  _ handle  _ anymore.  I’m not lying.  This isn’t some ploy I’m using to starve myself.  If I eat more than this, I won’t be able to keep it down.”

“If you throw up, I’ll get you another bowl.”

Timothée closes his eyes, trying to fight back tears.  “This isn’t--Armie, I ate. I ate half the bowl, and I’m full, and I’m exhausted, and I want to stop.  Just let me stop.”

Armie sighs, and takes a moment before he responds.  “Just one more bite. Then we can go to bed.”

Timothée nods, accepting this small mercy.  He takes a bite, and tries not to feel like he’s betraying his own body.

Armie smiles at him.  “Good. I know it’s hard for you.  I just want you to be okay.”

“I know,” Timothée mumbles, although he hates him for it.  Without saying anything else, he leaves Armie at the table and rummages through his bag.  Sitting on the couch, he takes his antibiotics and multivitamin, making sure that Armie sees.  Then, he begins to unwrap the bandages around his palms.

Armie comes and sits next to him on the couch, his legs crossed over themselves, ankles tucked underneath his thighs.  He hisses when Timothée finishes unwrapping the bandages, exposing damaged skin on his palms. Some of it is stitched up, but a lot of it was too flayed and wide to stitch, so they could only put gauze on it.  “Jesus, Tim.”

“Yeah,” Timothée says, starting to apply some of the ointment to the cuts.  “I don’t really even remember it.”

“Do you need help with that?”

“This? No, I got it.”

Armie places his hand in Timothée’s hair as he works, then slowly lets it fall down his jaw, then to his neck.  He can only remember that night in bits and pieces, small flashes of memory, like a scratched CD. But he remembers the feeling of those hands around his neck more vividly than anything.  And when Armie fingers brush against his neck, suddenly, he’s back there. He’s confused and overwhelmed, alert and sleepy all at once, and he can’t breathe, he’s dying, he’s dying--

Timothée flinches away.  “Please don’t do that.”

“What?”   


“Touch my neck.”   


“Okay.  Sorry.” Armie puts his hand in his lap.

Timothée can’t stop shaking.  He keeps dropping the fabric, unable to wrap it properly.  It’s the first time he’s had to re-bandage his hands on his own, and he hadn’t predicted how difficult it would be to do it on his own.  It doesn’t help that the anxiety from Armie touching his neck leaves him jittery, his vision blurry around the edges.

“Let me do it,” Armie says softly.  He doesn’t take his hands, doesn’t touch him, Timothée notices.  He normally would, but tonight, he doesn’t.

“Okay,” Timothée agrees, because it’s probably less embarrassing to let Armie do it for him than it would be for Armie to watch him fuck it up for twenty minutes.  He crosses his legs, scooching over so he’s facing Armie, and stretches his palms out towards him.

Armie sets Timothée’s hands down on his lap and sets to work.  He wraps each palm gently, his fingers soft and warm against Timothée’s skin.  He does it with the confidence and ease that only a father well-practiced in cleaning up other people’s minor injuries, and it’s so soothing that Timothée’s anxiety dissipates and he nearly falls asleep on the spot.  He slumps forward once Armie’s finished, so his face is pressed against Armie’s collarbone. Armie chuckles and places a hand on Timothée’s shoulder blades, rubbing back and forth.

“I missed you too,” Timothée mumbles.

“Hmm?”

“Earlier, when you said you missed me.  I missed you too.”

“Oh,” Armie says, affectionate.  He wraps another arm around Timothée.  “You’re always sweet when you’re tired.”

Timothée hums, a little frustrated that Armie’s brushed aside his honesty as just tiredness.  He did miss Armie. He feels better when he’s here, feels safer, feels protected. He hates that Armie’s yelling at him, hates that he’s making him eat, but at least he’s here.  At least he’s giving him some type of attention, some type of validation. A confirmation that he cares, that he’s a priority, that he’s more than just some kid who got too attached after shooting.

“Come on, let’s go to bed.” Armie pulls him to his feet, and Timothée, like a zombie, shuffles along with him to his bed.

They lie side by side in bed together.   Armie keeps twitching, reaching out to get closer to Timothée and then stopping himself.  Eventually, Timothée notices and rolls closer to Armie, so his face is near his chest, and presses his nose against Armie’s neck.

“If you do not get your cold nose away from me--”

Timothée giggles, his hot breath hitting Armie’s collarbone and blowing back into his face.  There’s something so innocent about this, so simple, like two kittens huddling together for warmth on a bed that’s too big for them.

Suddenly, Armie gets up and walks away.  

“Where are you going?” Timothée asks, his voice small.

Armie doesn’t reply.  The rejection hits Timothée suddenly, knocking him back and leaving him breathless.   _ You should’ve known better than to keep your hopes up,  _ he thinks to himself,  _ He’d never want you, not after you’ve made yourself so disgustingly pathetic. _

Then, suddenly, Armie is back sitting on the foot of his bed with an ice pack.

“Oh.”   


Armie rolls his eyes.  “You’re an idiot.”

Armie pulls Timothée’s out from under the blanket, holding it steadily underneath the ankle.  Then, he carefully removes the splint that covers Timothée’s big toe and inner half of his foot.

He hisses.  “Jesus, Tim, this looks really bad.”  He pokes at it gently.

“It looked worse before.”

Armie looks up and at Timmy’s face.  “That does not make me feel better.” He looks back down at the foot.  “It’s so swollen.”

“Yeah...”   


“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What’s there to say?  It’s being dealt with.”

“It must’ve been killing you.”

“Armie.  Stop worrying.”   


Armie looks at him with narrowed eyes.  “You make it difficult.” His tone is light, but Timothée can tell that he’s serious.  There’s nothing he can say besides sorry, and he doesn’t think Armie wants to hear that.

Armie places the ice pack on top of Timothée’s foot.

Timothée flinches.  “That’s cold.”

“Yeah, that’s the point of ice, dumbass.”

Timothée rolls his eyes.

Armie sets Timothée’s ice-clad foot off of his lap and down on the bed.  “Is that a comfortable position?”

“Yes,” Timothée replies, smiling at him, “Thank you.”   _ I love you,  _ he wants to say.  He doesn’t.

Armie moves to get back into the bed with Timothée, then pauses.  “Um,” he says. “Do you need anything for your neck?”

Timothée’s smile drop.  “No. Just. Come back.”

Armie obeys, crawling in next to Timothée.  Timothée can’t move very much without dislodging the ice pack Armie so carefully placed on his foot, so Armie scooches over and drapes his arm over Timothée’s chest, wrapping an arm around his bicep and rubbing his thumb against it rhythmically.

Timothée sighs, leaning into the touch.  “I love having you here,” he whispers. It’s the closest thing he can say to the truth.

Armie doesn’t smile, doesn’t do anything to acknowledge that he’s heard him.  Instead, he just asks, very quietly, “What happened to your neck?”

Timothée presses his eyes closed as his heart rate picks up speed. “Nothing.”

“There are bruises--”

“Can we not talk about this right now?” Timothée asks.  He doesn’t understand why they can’t just have a few minutes of peace.  Why do they constantly have to be talking about everything that’s wrong all the time?  There’s a heavy pressure that weighs on the room at all times, as if Armie is constantly afraid that Timothée is going to break apart.  He wants it gone. He doesn’t want to talk about this now, and, if he’s honest, he doesn’t want to talk about it ever.

Not with Armie, at least.  Armie, who will freak out. Armie, who can barely control his rage when someone he loves is even slighted, let alone hurt.  Armie, who will be so overwhelmed with anguish when he hears about what happened, who will never stop being afraid of Timothée being hurt again.

Telling him won’t help either of them.   


“Did someone hurt you?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

Armie doesn’t speak for a long time.  Then: “Someone hurt you.” It’s not a question.

“It’s over,” Timothée says simply.

“Who was it?”   


“It’s  _ over.” _

“I’ll fucking kill him--”

“No, you won’t.  Just. Let’s go to sleep.”

Armie doesn’t say anything, just tightens his grip on Timothée.  “I’m not gonna let anything like that happen to you again. Okay?”

“I know,” Timothée says honestly.  He knows Armie keeps him safe.

“You don’t have to be scared.  You’re gonna be safe.”

“I know.”

“I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you ever again.  Ever.”

“I know.”

“That includes you, by the way.”

Timothée closes his eyes, lets out a shaky breath.  Then, miserably, “Yeah, I know.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“For how long? ”

“Until you’re okay again.”

_ I was never okay,  _ Timothée thinks.   _ I wasn’t okay before I met you, and I was even less okay after. _

“What about Liz?  She doesn’t mind that you’re just here indefinitely?”

Armie sighs.  “I mean, she doesn’t love it.  But, you know, she understands.  You’re family. We can’t just, like, abandon you.”

Timothée nods slowly.  “What about work stuff?  You don’t have anything going on?”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“I don’t wanna hold you back.”   


“Shut up.”   


Timothée nearly laughs.  “Okay.” 

The idea of Armie putting his life on hold for him fills Timothée with guilt.  He’s not worth that. He doesn’t deserve that.

And yet, selfishly, he loves it.  He loves that Armie is here, holding him, worried about him.  He loves having proof that he matters. And, most of all, he loves Armie.  He loves being with him. And he doesn’t want to be without him.   


“I’m not worried about anything but you right now.  Okay? You’re like--you’re like my little brother. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

Timothée closes his eyes, tries not to cry.   _ Little brother.   _ Not even just brother.   _ Little  _ brother.  That’s even worse.  Not only has he been relegated to a familial relationship, he has also been demeaned to some type of juvenile, baby status.

Well, it’s confirmation of what Timothée always believed: Armie doesn’t take him seriously.

In Timothée’s silence, Armie asks, “You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah,” Timothée says.  He knows.

It’s just not the type of love he wants.


	11. Chapter 11

Timothée dreams of large hand around his neck, of a heavy weight on his throat, forcing him down, leaving him unable to move.  He dreams of the pain of Antoine’s penis inside of him, tearing back and forth until he was bleeding: no prep, no lube, nothing like he imagined it feeling like.  He dreams of blood pooling on the bed, falling persistently from his ass, until there’s too much blood and the hands press too tight and something snaps and he’s gone.

Dead, naked in a stranger’s apartment.

His eyes fly open.  Armie still asleep on his stomach, his arms wrapped tightly around Timothée’s shoulders, gripping him hard and pinning him down even in his sleep.  That restriction, that inability to move, coupled with the dream nearly sends him reeling. His heart beats fast, his breathing picks up, and--

He _cannot_ have a panic attack right now.

He wiggles in Armie’s grip, trying to free himself without waking Armie, but there’s no leeway.  Fuck it. The panic is too much to endure; he’ll wake Armie if he has to. “Armie,” he whispers.

He doesn’t stir.  Timothée’s heart thuds.  Armie can’t hear him, just like Antoine couldn’t when his air supply was cut off.  Fuck. _Fuck._

“Armie,” Timothée says, loudly this time.

Still, nothing.  Timothée tries to calm himself down.  Tries to use the breathing technique that his mom taught him, but nothing can stave off panic when he’s being pinned down like this.  He wiggles again, but can’t quite get free.

Why is Armie squeezing him so fucking hard in his sleep?

“He won’t hurt me,” Timothée whispers to himself.  “He won’t hurt me. He won’t hurt me. He won’t hurt me.  He loves me, he won’t hurt me. He won’t hurt me.”

Suddenly, he hears, beside him, “Timmy.”

Timothée shuts his mouth.

“Timmy?  What’s wrong?”

“Please let go of me,” Timothée answers, barely audible.  Still, Armie manages to hear it and pulls his hand away immediately.

The weight leaves him, and Timothée slumps down against the pillow in relief.  Still, he’s breathing heavy. Crying a bit--he hadn’t noticed until now.

“Timmy...” Armie says, his voice soft.

“I’m okay,” Timothée chokes out, staring at the ceiling.  “I’m fine. Sorrying for waking you.”

Armie says nothing, but Timothée can feel the weight of his concerned gaze.  He really needs to stop crying, needs to stop being such a bother to everyone around him.  Armie won’t want to be around him at all, if he acts like this all the time.

“I’m really fine, I just need a second,” Timothée insists.  He curses himself for going off with Antoine. Why did he need to do that?  He can’t deal with the trauma of his own stupidity on top of the way things already are.  He can’t deal with this. He has no idea what to expect from it, how to talk to anyone about it in a way that won’t freak them out.  The last thing he needs is for everyone to be _more_ worried about him.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.  A dream. Nothing.”

“A dream?  About what?”

Timothée, more honest than he’s been in months, says, “I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now.  I need to calm down. Just go back to sleep, I can handle this.”

Armie doesn’t say anything, and Timothée uses the silence to count out his breathing.  When he thinks he’s calmed down, Armie reaches out and tenderly touches his face, using his thumb to blot Timothées tears.  It’s gentle, and loving, but--

Even a gentle and loving touch is too much.

Timothée’s breathing hitches.  “I really need to not be touched right now.”

“Okay,” Armie agrees quickly.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Timothée counts his breathing in his head, reminding himself in between each breath that he’s safe.  If someone were to try to hurt him, Armie’s right there next to him. He’s big, and he’s strong, and he could fight anybody off, probably.  And Armie promised last night: _I’m not gonna let anything happen to you._

Timothée believes him.

Once he’s calmed down, Armie asks, “You okay?”

“Me okay,” Timothée says, turning his head to look at Armie.

Armie smiles that soft, small smile that Timothée likes to think is reserved just for him.  “Yeah? You feel better now.”

Timothée nods.  “Well, you’re here, so.”

Armie’s sucks his lips in between his teeth, staring at Timothée with somewhat wet eyes.  “I’m--fuck, I don’t know how to say this. How the fuck are you so open all the time?”

“I’m really not, anymore,” Timothée says, inadvertently taking on a somewhat tragic tone of voice.

Armie’s smile drops, and he goes quiet.

“What did you wanna say?” Timothée asks, now desperately curious.

“I just.  That I’m just--happy.  That it makes you feel better to have me here.  And that you--trust me.” He sighs, turns his head.  “But, apparently you don’t anymore.”

Timothée’s stomach drops.  He didn’t mean to insult Armie.  He fixes his mistake an a somewhat impulsive manner: getting on top of Armie.  He crawls on his knees until he’s straddling Armie’s hips, then flops down against his chest.

“What are you doing?” Armie asks.  He sounds confused, but his hand is already in Timothée’s hair, where it often finds itself.

“I trust you,” Timothée breathes out.  “Sometimes, lately, it’s hard for me to talk about things.  But that’s not because of you.”

“Okay,” Armie whispers.  Then, louder, “I’m being selfish.  I came here because you’re... having a hard time, and then I make it about myself.  It’s not--”

“Oh, shut up,” Timothée says, mumbling into his shirt.

Armie rubs his hands up and down Timothée’s sides.  “Was that a panic attack?” he asks, quiet.

“Yeah.”

“I feel like you’re having those really often now?  Have you always had this many?”

Timothée buries his face in Armie’s chest.  “No, this is. A lot more than usual. Before... all of this started, I hadn’t had one since high school.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Oh,” Armie says.

“I mean--maybe later?  I dunno.” Timothée tries to think of a decent excuse, and ultimately lands on, “I think it’s something I’d rather talk about my with my parents, you know?”

“Oh.  Yeah. Of course, that makes sense.  They probably know better than I do.”

Timothée doesn’t say anything, knowing full well he’s not going to talk about his panic attacks to his parents.  That would mean admitting what happened that night in Paris, and that wouldn’t do anything but hurt everyone involved.

“You still feel a bit hot.  You feel okay?”

Timothée blinks lazily.  “It’s nothing to worry about.  Seriously, my fever has gone down a lot.”

“How’s your foot feel?  And your hands?”

“They’re fine.  I’m fine. The ice helped a lot.  Thank you.”

They lie there like that for a while, the tips of Armie’s fingers lightly running up and down his sides.  When they get particular close to his armpits a couple times, he laughs a little, and Armie laughs too. Timothée can hear Armie’s heartbeat like this, that even, steady thumping, providing rhythm to everything they do.  It’s comforting. He lies here, and pretends that they’re something more than they are. He pretends Armie loves him the way he wants it.

Armie’s phone vibrates, and he grabs it.  He holds it out above, his arm wrapping over Timothée’s head to see it.

“Who is it?” Timothée asks, probably invasively.

“Liz.”  Armie says.  When Timothée looks up, he’s smiling.

Ah.  Back to reality, then.

“Look.”  Armie turns the phone around so Timothée can see.  On the screen is a photo of Harper in ballet class, dressed in a leotard and tights, smiling big while pointing her foot in a tendu.

“Awww,” Timothée coos, smiling.  He loves Harper endlessly, loves that Armie has managed to create such an amazing thing, loves how much Armie loves her.  His eyes tear up involuntarily. Sometimes, in moments like this, that same fear that he had in the beginning of shooting Beautiful Boy hits him again.  The fear that his body is disintegrating, that his brain and his heart are taking a beating. The fear that he won’t make it out of this alive.

What if this kills him?  What if it kills him before he gets to see Harper again?

“Can you, uh--” Timothée cuts off, knowing his voice sounds choked up and awful.  He swallows and takes a breath. “Can you tell Elizabeth to tell Harper that I love her?”

“On it,” Armie says, tapping away on his phone.  When he’s done, he places the phone on the side table and leans his head forward, his lips lightly brushing against the top of Timothée’s head.

“What’s that for?”

“Nothing.  Just wanted to.”

Timothée sags against Armie’s chest.  So apparently being Armie’s little brother means getting kisses in his hair.  He’ll take it.

But is that a little brother kiss?  Or is that an _I suddenly feel very paternal over you for no reason_ kiss?  Or is it an _I’m afraid you’re going to die so maybe I should be super nice to you just in case_ kiss?  Or perhaps it’s an _I feel bad for you because you’re so fucked up and no one else would ever wanna kiss someone like this so I guess I’ll do it out of pity_ kiss.

Does Timothée really care?  Not right now.

He closes his eyes, and falls back asleep, safe in Armie’s arms.

***

A few hours later, it’s time to go to Timothée’s parent’s apartments for breakfast and “a talk.”  He doesn’t know for sure what this talk will entail, but he has a general idea. Armie asks hesitantly if he wants him to come along or if Timothée would rather talk to his parents alone, and Timothée tells him he’d like it if he came with him.  He missed him desperately, and doesn’t want to waste a moment anymore.

Especially now that he knows that Armie is only staying until he’s better.  There’s a deadline. Armie’s only here out of obligation, which hurts a little, but Timothée wants to make the most of it nonetheless.

Nicole answers the door.  Timmy,” she says, immediately pulling him into a hug.  He sinks into her embrace. She holds him there for a long time, Armie awkwardly hovering beside them.  “How are you?”

“I’m okay.”

She releases him from the hug and looks him up and down.  “You feel okay?”

“Yes.  The antibiotics are working, and I feel better now.”

“He still has a fever,” Armie blurts out.

Timothée expects his mom to say something to him, but she just looks at Armie and chuckles.  “Thank you for taking care of him for us.”

Armie shakes his head.  “Oh, it’s really nothing--” he starts, but Nicole hugs him before he can finish.

Timothée, feeling awkward, wanders into the apartment to find his dad.  He finds him in the kitchen, cooking something.

“Papa,” Timothée says.  “Salut.”

Marc whips around.  “Timo,” he says, his voice wondrous. He stares at him for a second.  “Tu as l'air horrible.”

“Ouais, je sais,” Timothée says, running his fingers through his hair and looking away.  When he takes his hand away, there are multiple pieces of hair between his fingers. Fuck.

“What are you doing to yourself?”  His tone is tragic, his eyes wet. His hands reach out to Timothée, but his feet stay in place, as if he’s staring at a ghost.

“I don’t know, I--” Timothée cuts himself, shakes his head.  What he wants is a hug, really. What he wants is for his father to tell him that everything is going to be okay.  Instead, what he gets is a stony gaze and the look of sheer disappointment.

“Le petit déjeuner sera prêt bientôt. Aide ta maman à mettre la table.”

Timothée follows his instructions, getting forks and knives out of the table.  As he sets the table, he can see that his mother and Armie are still by the door, speaking in hushed voices.  Probably about him. Eventually, they catch him staring and stop talking. They both smile at him. He smiles back.

When the meal is ready, they all sit at the table together.  His father made crepes, which they normally eat for dessert and not breakfast.  That’s the way actual french people do it, so it’s the way they do it. But today is different, probably because crepes have always been Timothée’s favorite.  They have always been

The conversation is stilted and awkward, everyone trying to pretend that everything is normal and fine.  Mostly small talk. Timothée picks at his food.

His father is the one to call him on it.  “You’re not eating.”

“I--uh.”  Timothée takes a piece with his fork and picks it up.  He brings it close to his mouth, then puts it down.

“It’s your favorite, Timmy, come on,” his mom says.

“I know,” Timothée mumbles.  He doesn’t know how to explain to them that he’s still full from the half a bowl of soup he ate twelve hours ago.  He doesn’t know how to explain that he can still feel like noodles and broth swimming around inside him, and he can’t bear to insert anything more into himself.

There are a few moments of silence, and then his father tries again.  “I can make you something else, if you want.”

“No, this is fine,” Timothée answers quickly.  He doesn’t want to be rude, doesn’t want to burden anyone.

“Then, eat.”

Timothée tries.  He really does. Well, actually, not really.  He doesn’t really _want_ to try.  Doesn’t see why he should have to.  He ate last night, didn’t he? Isn’t that enough?  Why does he have to eat more?

His father slams his hand down on the table.  “Timothée. Vous semblez n'avoir pas mangé depuis des jours. Mange maintenant.”

“I have, I ate last night!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“He did,” Armie interjects quietly.  “He ate soup. I made him.”

Timothée looks over at him gratefully, but Armie doesn’t make eye contact.  Instead, he just says, “But now it’s a different meal.”

Timothée looks down at the table, feeling tears well up in his eyes.  There’s no way he’s going to be able to handle this. Everyday, someone will make him eat?  He can’t do it. He doesn’t know how he once did, why he once wanted to. It’s awful, filling himself up in that way.  It feels terrible, feels disgusting.

He takes a sip of water.  He loves the way the coolness slips down into his empty stomach.  He loves when he can feel it sloshing around inside him. Liquid, light, always moving.  In and out of him like nothing, with no trace left behind. No calories, no carbohydrates, no protein, no fat.  No feeling of fullness. Just the cold.

“Timmy, please at least make an effort,” his mother says.  “Just one bite.”

One bite.  Timothée can do that, maybe.  He takes a bite, and then puts his fork down.  He feels proud, feels accomplished. He’s done what his mother has asked.  He’s done what he has supposed to do, and everyone has seen it, and everyone will be happy with him now.  No one will have to worry anymore.

When he looks up, his mother is smiling encouragingly.  He smiles back, feeling like he did when he would show her that he got an A on a test.

Then she says, “Now another one.”

Timothée’s stomach drops.  “What? You said--”

“Another bite.”

“This isn’t what you told me!  You said just one bite!”

“Yes.  I meant take it one bite at a time.  Now have another.”

“No.  I ate last night and now I ate today too.  I’m not eating anymore.”

Timothée looks around the table.  His mother looks focused, determined.  Armie is staring, wide-eyed. His father looks like he may hit him, which is something that’s never happened before, not even when he was a child.  His parents never even spanked him. Now his dad looks like he’s going to deck him.

“Fine,” Timothée mumbles.  “But this is the last one.”

“Come on,” Armie says.  “You can do better than that.”

“Fuck you,” Timothée says, surprising himself.  Armie looks surprised too. He’s never said that to him.

“Timmy, he’s trying to help you,” his mother says, placatingly.  “Just relax and--”

“I don’t need anybody helping me!  I didn’t fucking ask anybody to help me!”  Timothée stands up, starts to get up and leave.  “I don’t want help, I’m fucking _fine_ and everyone just needs to--”

His father wraps his hand around Timothée’s wrist, squeezing tight.  He looks him in the eyes and says very quietly, very firmly, “Asseyez-vous.  Maintenant.”

Timothée stares back.  He’s never been scared of his father before this moment, and he wishes desperately that Armie wasn’t here to witness it.  A part of him wants to keep leaving, just to preserve his dignity, but he feels like that may lead to his parents doing something completely ridiculous, like calling 911 and reporting him missing.

He sits down, his cheeks burning.  He cuts off a tiny piece of his food and eats it.  He spends a while chewing, hoping that if he does that for long enough it might burn some of the calories of what he’s eating.

He wishes that they would go back to talking.  Go back to eating their own food too instead of just staring at him.  There are few times he’s felt this uncomfortable. Every time he takes a bite, everyone looks at him like they’re expecting him to take another, and he feels like crying.

“Can I please just stop?” Timothée whispers, unable to look any of them in the eye.  He’s taken six bites, each one of them about the size of both of his thumbnails put together.  He’s measured them exactly.

“No.”

“Please, I’m so full.  I don’t want anymore, please don’t make me.”

“No, you need to eat more.”

Timothée looks up, looks at all of them.  “If you make me eat anymore, I’ll go to the bathroom and make myself throw up.  And then I’ll leave and I’ll never talk to any of you again.”

“If you do that, we’ll call the police and have you involuntarily hospitalized.  You’ll be kept there until psychologists determine that it’s safe for you to go. If you refuse to eat there, they’ll stick a tube down your nose and into your stomach and force feed you.”  His mother says this all very calmly. It doesn’t sound like he’s trying to scare him. It just sounds like a fact. “We all talked about it, and if it comes to that, that’s what we’ll do. That’s what has to be done with things get... severe.  We don’t want to do it. But you’re malnourished, and that needs to be fixed somehow.”

Timothée shakes his head.  “I don’t believe you.”

“Timmy.  Please,” his mother says.  “We can’t just sit here and watch you die.  Please eat a little bit more.”

Timothée closes his eyes.   _Watch you die._ He thinks of lying in bed that morning, of Armie showing him the picture of Harper.  How do you explain to a two-year old that someone she loves died? How does a two-year-old process something like that?

She’s so young.  If he died now, would she even remember him?

He takes a bite.  “Enough?”

“No,” his father says.

His mother sighs.  “Fine. For now.”

Armie looks unsatisfied, but he doesn’t say anything.  Apparently his mother’s word trumps everyone else’s.

After everyone else is finished eating and talking about nothing, they relocate to the family room.  On the coffee table are multiple pamphlets.

Armie sits near the end of the couch, and Timothée slips in next to him, so he’s cornered between the arm rest and Armie’s shoulder.  Armie brings his arm over his shoulder and squeezes gently.

“Okay, listen sweetheart,” his mother says.  “These are some of the different programs we’ve looked into, okay?  Different psychologists who specialize in this sort of thing.”

Timothée leans forward and grabs one of the pamphlets on the table, starts leafing through it.

His mother continues.  “The way that most of these work is that you meet with a psychologist who will make a diagnosis.  And then you’ll go to therapy and also meet with a dietician who will draw up a plan for how you should be eating.”

In the pamphlet, Timothée sees the word _facility._ It draws his attention.  He keeps reading, and sees _in-patient program._ His mother is saying something, but he cuts her off.  “You want to send me to a fucking psych ward?”  
“Timmy, that’s just one of the--”

“You’re not sending me away anywhere!” Timothée starts to squirm in his seat, but Armie keeps a tight grip on him.  Timothée doesn’t know why he’s moving so much, doesn’t know where he’s planning on going or what he even wants here, but he’s terrified.  “I’m not going to a fucking insane asylum! That’s not--I’m not crazy, you can’t do that to me!”

“Timmy, Timmy,” Armie is repeating softly.  “Timmy, relax.”

“Okay, first of all, insane asylums don’t really exist anymore.  There are mental hospitals but they’re not--”

“I don’t care!  I’m not going!”

“Alright, we weren’t planning on sending you to one, so relax.”

Timothée pauses.  “What?”

“There are multiple options here,” she explains.  “That’s the most severe. We don’t want to do that to you.  We’re not going to send you anywhere right now.”

“ _Right now?”_

“Listen, we looked into those in case the other options don’t work.  Unless you completely refuse to comply, we’re not sending you anywhere,” she says.  She pauses for a moment, and then says, “Or unless you decide you want to go to one.  It’s up to you.”

Timothée shakes his head, and feels a tear fall from his eye.  “I don’t want to go.”

Armie is rubbing reassuring circles into his upper arm, pulling him tight against him.  Armie wouldn’t let his parents send him away somewhere, would he? He wouldn’t let that happen.  He said, _I’m not gonna let anything happen to you._ He’d keep that promise, right?

His mother takes the pamphlet he’s currently holding out of his hand.  She replaces it with another packet of paper. “This is a different program.  A friend recommended it to me. Her daughter went through this.”

Timothée stares at her.

“The therapist is very good.  She specializes in eating disorders and--”

“I don’t have an eating disorder.”

Armie sighs, drops his head so his chin almost hits his chest.

“I don’t,” Timothée insists.  “I haven’t been diagnosed with anything.”

“Well, when you _are_ diagnosed with--”

“We don’t know for sure that I will be diagnosed with anything at all.  I ate today and yesterday. I could do it.”

“Only because we made you.  And it was really upsetting for you and, honestly, for everyone.  We’re trying to make it so that it’s easier for you. That’s the point of all this, so you can be okay,” Armie says.

Timothée doesn’t look at him.  “I am okay.”

“We all know that that’s not true.”

Timothée doesn’t speak again.  He knows there’s no point in arguing.

“So, we’ve found a few different psychologists, so if you don’t like the first one, then we can find you another,” his mother says, all-business.

“Okay.”

His father speaks up.  “Well he can’t just dilly-dally around like that.  He needs to be in treatment, not just dipping his foot into--”

“There’s no point of being in treatment if the therapy is ineffective,” his mother says, her eyes closed, her voice calm.

Eventually, they get the details and logistics of everything sorted out, and Timothée is exhausted.  He leans against Armie, nearly falling asleep on his shoulder. “My stomach hurts,” he complains.

“Do you wanna go lie down, baby?” his mom suggests.  “You can take a nap if you want.”

Timothée nods and shuffles up the stairs to his bedroom.  As soon as he’s out of Armie’s embrace, he’s cold.

When he’s at the top of the stairs and turns the corner, he hears Armie say, “Do you think he’s going to make himself throw up?”

Timothée hadn’t even had the idea.  Shoving his fingers down his throat that one time had been awful, and it’s an experience he doesn’t want to repeat unless he absolutely has to.  Unless he messes up in that way again. Still, his stomach does feel awful. It would be nice to empty it, to get rid of the culprit of the pain.

That would upset Armie a lot.

He stumbles over to his bed and lies on his left side, waiting for his stomach to settle.  He weighs his options. Armie really would not like it if he made himself throw up. He’d be so angry.  And if Timothée keeps messing up like that, Armie will surely leave and never come back. Eventually, he’ll get sick of this.  How much patience can Armie have? How long can he try to save someone when they don’t really care about being saved?

On second thought, Armie did say that he’s staying until Timothée is okay.  As long as Timothée remains... whatever he is now, Armie will stay. Why should he try to get better?  Armie will just leave. Why should he try to be better? He knows he’s pathetic, disgusting, weak and sick.  That’s what got Armie here in the first place, wasn’t it? Calling him at four in the morning, high and drunk and hurt, crying.  Ending up in the hospital. Rejecting food. He had to do all of that to get Armie to come here. He had to do all of that to get Armie’s attention, to get his love.

If that’s what it takes.

He walks to the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that I wasn't able to answer everyone's comments from last chapter, I just haven't been able to get around to it. I really struggle with what to say in response to comments sometimes, because I feel like just saying "thank you!!" isn't enough, but I don't know what else there is. If I don't reply to your comment or if my reply is somewhat lackluster, please know that I really do appreciate each and every comment I get on this. The feedback that I get on it is incredibly encouraging, and I've often actually gotten ideas from you're comments. Hearing that this fic has had an impact on you guys really does mean the world to me.


	12. Chapter 12

Timothée finishes throwing up and flushes the toilet. He doesn’t bother to clean what spilled onto the toilet seat and doesn’t febreeze the bathroom at all, so it still smells pretty much like puke.  He closes the bathroom door and crawls back into bed, hoping that he can take a quick nap while Armie and his parents talk about him behind his back.

He likes being back here, in his old bedroom.  It makes him feel safe. Makes him feel loved. It’s somewhat corrupted by the vomit that’s in the toilet and the strands of hair that fall out of his head and onto the pillow, the way he’s shivering under his blankets in a warm room.  But something about the room seems to override all that.

When he’s just about to fall asleep, Armie walks in.

“Hey,” Timothée says.

Armie smiles fondly.  “Hey, sleepy,” he says, walking over and touching Timothée’s face.  These touches confuse the hell out of Timothée. Isn’t he a  _ little brother?   _ The way Armie touches him sometimes is far too tender for that.  Wrestling, he understands, hugging as well, a head on a shoulder, even cuddling.  He gets all of that, kind of. But these small touches, during which Armie looks at him with such affection, such care, he cannot wrap his head around.  There’s something intimate about the way he touches his cheekbone with his thumb, or the way his knuckles brush against his neck when he’s sleepy or feeling ill, the way he tangles in his fingers in Timothée’s hair and scratches gently at his scalp when he thinks he’s sleeping.  Timothée doesn’t understand these touches. They’re too soft, too slow, too serious.

That’s not the way you treat a little brother.  It’s a type of tenderness that Timothée’s only seen between lovers.  Maybe between a parent and child as well, but Timothée seriously doubts that Armie sees him as his son.  Although, with the amount that he’s been taking care of him recently, who knows?

“Didn’t you just get up like, two hours ago?” Armie asks.  Under his light, teasing tone is concern.

“Yeah, I just.  I’m tired. That was a tiring conversation.”

Armie sits down on the bed.  Timothée’s lying in a loose fetal position, and Armie situates himself in front of Timothée’s stomach, so his arms and legs are loosely curled around him.  “I know that was hard,” he says. “But it’s for the best. You’ll go to therapy now, and then things won’t be so hard for you. You’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” Timothée says quietly, though he doesn’t quite believe him.  He just likes the way that Armie’s hand lies in his hair and how he purposely placed himself in this cuddling position.

“So this is your old room, then?”

“Yeah.”

Armie gets up and walks around, lightly brushing his fingers along all of the decorations in the room.  The stuffed animal on the dresser, the drama awards he won in high school. Play bills from LaGuardia, an old picture of him and Pauline, aged three and seven, hugging and grinning like the only thing they needed in life was each other’s love.  A couple movie posters, some random stickers, his acceptance letter to Columbia, from when he thought that academic prestige was something he wanted, let alone could handle. He remembers the day he got in. April 1st. Ivy Day, people called it.  All of his friends were twitchy and unfocused all day at school, waiting to see if they’d be the perfect kid they always dreamed of being.

He’d managed to achieve that, back then.  He didn’t realize it at the time, but he was pretty much doing everything right.  Then adulthood slapped him across the face, and he hated Columbia, hated it so bad that he had to either drop out or kill himself, and then he went on to be an unsuccessful actor who makes obscure indie films that no one sees.  So, he lost all that perfection. He gained Armie, though.

“This stuff is cute,” Armie says.  “Lil Timmy Tim.”

“Ugh, fuck off, man,” Timothée groans, pulling the covers over his face.

Armie’s still staring at that polaroid of him and Pauline.  “This is all making me kinda sad.”

“Why?”

“You were so happy.  And now...”

“I was never that happy,” Timothée says, meaning for it to be comforting but it’s just dark.

Armie stares at him, the photo wavering in his hand.  “You were happy in Crema, though, right?”

Timothée smiles.  “Yeah. I was happy in Crema.”

“Good,” Armie says.  “So I know what it looks like.”

Timothée doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t understand how he’s supposed to take that comment.

Armie continues looking around the room, and Timothée nearly falls asleep as he does it.  Then, suddenly, he says, “I’m gonna use your bathroom, okay?”

Timothée’s eyes fly open, ready to protest, except there’s nothing he can say that won’t give him away, and Armie is already halfway through the door anyway.

“Smells awful in here,” Armie mutters.

Fuck.  Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

The entire outcome plays out in Timothée’s head.  Armie sees the puke on the toilet. He tells Timothée’s parents.  They make good on their threat and have him hospitalised, and the doctors force a tube down his nose and into his stomach and force nutrients into his body that way.  And he’ll stay there, completely out of control of himself and the contents of his stomach, until it’s deemed that he’s no longer a danger to himself. And who knows how long that might be?  A day? A week? A month? Forever?

He won’t do it, he decides.  He’ll kill himself, if comes to it.

“Timmy...” Armie’s voice’s slow, hesitant, but Timothée can sense the anger under it.

Fuck.  Fuck. What the fuck is wrong with Timothée?  Why does he make Armie angry all the time now?  He pulls the covers over his head, afraid of being yelled at like he was in the hospital.

“Come over here.  Now.”

Timothée doesn’t move.

“Now, Timothée.”

Hesitantly, Timothée climbs out of bed and shuffles over to the bathroom.  As soon as he’s in there, Armie grabs him by the fore arm and yanks him over to look at the toilet, where small droplets of vomit sprinkle the seat and the floor around it.  He’s gripping him so tightly that it hurts.

“What is that?” Armie asks.

“I’m so sorry,” Timothée whispers.  He knows it’s no good, but he can’t think of anything else, and Armie squeezing his arm so hard that he’s certain it’ll leave bruises.

“What  _ is  _ that?” Armie asks, his voice venomous and spiteful.  He enunciates every consonant so crisply, leaving a space between each word.

“I’m sorry,” Timothée repeats, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Answer the fucking question.”

Timothée shakes his head, unable to respond.  Then, Armie yanks his arm again, and

the answer is pulled out of him.  “It’s puke.”

Armie stares at him.  “We’re leaving.”

Timothée’s heart thuds.  “Are you going to tell my parents?”

“I haven’t decided yet.  Put your shoes on, we’re going.”

As they leave, Armie gives quick, half-hearted hugs to Timothée’s parents, who seem surprised that they’re leaving so suddenly.  They shower Timothée with love as he leaves, giving him big hugs and kisses on the cheeks, telling him how proud they are that he’s getting help and that he ate today.  They  _ understand that it’s hard for him to eat,  _ they tell him, but they’re  _ so glad that he’s making the effort.   _ Armie hovers behind Timothée, his jaw clenched, his shoulders tense, nearly shaking with anger.

“That was nice,” Armie says in the car.  “How you just lied to your parents like that.  Nice that that’s so easy for you now. Must be convenient.”

“Armie.  I couldn’t have told them. I couldn’t.”

Armie grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles go white.  “You know, the thing I always liked most about you was how open you are.  How honest. Guess that’s gone.”

Timothée looks at his lap in shame.  How has he done this? How does he continue to disappoint the person he just wants to impress?  He just wants Armie to love him. He never will, at this rate. At this rate, he’ll hate him. “Maybe you should just go home.”

Armie snorts, but there’s no humour in it.  “Oh, I’m sure you’d love that. Then you can just do this with no one here to stop you.”

“No, I--I wouldn’t love it.  But you said, the things you liked about me are gone.  If you don’t like me anymore, you shouldn’t torture yourself by being around me.”

Armie doesn’t say anything.

“Just.  Go home, Armie.  You have a family.  A life. Real problems.  It’s not worth it for you to be here, it’s dumb, it’s a waste of your time.  You have stuff and people that are actually worth worrying about, and I’m not--”

Armie slams his hand against the steering wheel.  “Shut the fuck up,” he growls. “You are fucking  _ sick,  _ that is a real problem, you idiot.  You want me to just go home so you can sit around and starve yourself until you die?  Well, that’s not happening.”

“You have a kid.  A wife. People that you love.  You’re not obligated to take care of me just because I’m some like, clingy kid who got too attached after filming.  You clearly don’t enjoy being here, this is all just making you mad, and all I do is annoy you and it’s just--”

“Stop it!”  Armie says, swerving in his lane.  “You twist everything anyone says to fit this weird delusional narrative that I don’t care about you, and that no one loves you, and you know what?  It’s fucking obnoxious. There are so many people who love you, and it is insulting that everything we’ve done for you, you act like we don’t give a shit.  I’m tired of it.”

“I’m just saying that--”  
“If we continue this conversation right now, I’m going to crash the car, so shut the fuck up, and we’ll talk when we get home.”

Timothée slumps against his seat.  He knows that the car ride will only serve to let Armie’s anger simmer, and by the time they get home, he’ll be furious.  But when they get home, Armie doesn’t explode. He crumbles.

He sits on the couch, puts his head in his hands, and begins to cry.  He’s quiet, so quiet that Timothée can’t even hear him breathe, and the only sign of his distress is the shaking of his ribcage as the silent sobs wrack through his chest.

Timothée’s never seen Armie cry like this.  He’s seen him cry from anger, from frustration.  He’s seen him rage and rave, the tears secondary to the screams, the sadness a by-product of the fury.  And he’s seen Armie complain quietly, talking in short, quick sentences about whatever’s bothering him, quickly scrubbing away unwanted tears as soon as they appear in his eyes.  And he’s seen Armie cry earnestly, but only while watching a sad movie.

Never like this.  Never about himself.  Never about Timothée. The guilt seems to burn Timothée, scorching him from the inside out, as he hovers by the couch, his arms dangling awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do.  How can he possibly alleviate Armie’s pain? He’s the one who caused it.

Hesitantly, he sits down next to Armie on the couch, close, so their shoulders are nearly touching.  “I’m sorry,” he says, quietly.

Armie doesn’t look up from his hands.  His voice is thick. “You always say that.  And then you keep doing the same thing.”

Timothée stares at the coffee table, trying to find a way to explain this.  But how can he make Armie understand when he himself doesn’t truly understand it?  It’s a comfort. That’s all he knows. “It’s just... hard,” Timothée says, knowing the excuse is woefully inadequate.

Armie looks up and scowls.  “You’re not even trying,” he spits.

“I am.  I swear I am.  It’s just, my stomach hurt so bad after eating all that food.  It really hurt. I hadn’t eaten that much in so long, it hurt so badly, I couldn’t keep it down.  I  _ had  _ to.”

“You didn’t  _ have  _ to do anything,” Armie says, his voice barely above a whisper.  Timothée can imagine having this conversation while shouting. He has trouble understanding how it’s happening like this.

Timothée doesn’t know how to explain this, and wishes desperately he could just make Armie understand.  He knows it’s bad. He’s bad, he’s awful, a grotesque human being. He doesn’t know why everyone doesn’t just give up on him at this point, really.  But the food just sat so uncomfortably in his stomach, as if it was something foreign, something that fundamentally went against what his body was and what his body wanted to be.  “I had to,” Timothée says. “My stomach hurt so bad, it couldn’t handle the food.”

“Because you haven’t eaten in so long.  That’s why it couldn’t handle the food. Because you stopped eating normally.”

“I had to stop eating normally, I had a job to do, I was playing a fucking meth addict and--”

“And then the movie ended.” Armie buries his head in his hands again, exhaling wetly.  “Timmy. The movie ended.”

Timothée sighs.  Armie is crying again, and Timothée doesn’t know what to do.  He knows that Armie doesn’t want his comfort, but he knows that he can’t just get up and walk away either.  He stares straight ahead, listening to the traffic and the people outside, until his eyes are unfocused and watery.  It feels like hours until Armie speaks again.

“Do you want to die?” Armie asks, the question puncturing the silence in the room like a balloon that slaps Timothée in the face as it pops.

Timothée sighs, shifts in his seat.  He feels like he’s gotten a bad grade on a test, and his mother is asking him,  _ do you want to not get into college?   _ “Dude, c’mon.”

“I’m serious,” Armie says, turning to look at Timothée.  Their eyes lock, and Timothée can’t look away. It’s as if something is pulling them together, as if they’re the last two people on earth, watching the world end.  As if they’re two soldiers on the battlefield of a war they know they’re going to die fighting.

Timothée can’t answer him.  He can’t find his breath.

“It’s not a trick question, Timmy.”  Armie’s voice is soft, now, gentle and sympathetic.  “I’m not going to be mad. I just need you to be honest with me.  Is this whole thing about a matter of you wanting to die?”

Timothée stares at Armie’s face, as if he might find the answer there.  He wishes Armie would just tell him never mind, and take him into his arms and they would hold each other, and Timothée could feel okay.  Timothée always hated the way Armie sometimes babied him, but now he wants it back desperately. He misses the days when Armie would coddle him a little bit, would take him under his arm and make sure he was okay, would never say anything to upset Timothée.

“Timmy.  Please. You can tell me.  I won’t be mad at you, I promise.  Just tell me. I need to know.”

Timothée feels like he’s choking.

“Timmy.  Just answer me.  Do you want to die?”

“I don’t know.”

Armie’s face goes white, and he looks as if he’s just been shot.  Or that he looks as if he’s just Timothée get shot. “You...” his voice is breathless, barely there, and it strikes Timothée that Armie was banking on Timothée giving a confident  _ no.   _ That he believed his fears were just paranoia, and he asked the question to placate himself.  He was just checking, almost out of obligation, to make sure that they weren’t already in worst-case scenario.  “You don’t know?”

“I’m sorry,” Timothée whispers.  “I know that’s not what you want to hear.”

Armie licks his lips, swallows.  Tries to collect himself. “No, I.  What I wanted to hear was the truth.  And. That’s what I heard. So. Good.  Good that I know.”  
Because Armie looks so desperate, and because Timothée seems to upset Armie whether he tries to hide what he does or not, he decides to do his best to be honest.  “It’s not that I want to die, I just. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know why I do this. I know... Logically, I know that this can kill me. Will kill me, if it continues on.  And I know that, but I just can’t get myself to react to it.”

Armie nods.  He seems attentive, like a good student trying to remember everything their teacher says.  His face is blank, but his hands are shaking. “You don’t react, because... you don’t care if you die?”

Timothée shrugs.  He hates this, hates having this information plucked out of him in this way.  It’s so uncomfortable. “I don’t know what I care about. I don’t know how to explain it.  I can’t make sense of anything I’m feeling. Everything feels so different now, and I don’t have any frame of reference for it.  All I know is that not eating makes me feel better. It’s comforting.”

“Comforting,” Armie echoes.  “What do you need to be comforted from?”

Timothée shrugs, looks away.  He doesn’t want to talk to Armie about this.

“From what happened in Paris?  With the... person who hurt you?  You need comfort from that?”  
Timothée needs to swing the door shut on that conversation.  That’s too much. That’s more than he can deal with. “I guess.  Yeah. And other things.”

“What other things?”

Timothée shrugs again, a little irritated at the way Armie keeps chewing away at this.  Still, he knows he can’t shut down. That’ll only get Armie to get mad again, and Timothée doesn’t want him to tell his parents about what happened.  “I don’t know. Like. When I fuck something up. Or, just, anything. Like, this is something I can control, you know? When something else goes wrong, I can just.  Not eat. I know I can always do that.”

“But I don’t understand,” Armie says.  “There are so many different ways to feel better.  There are--I’m  _ always  _ here, Timmy.  If something goes wrong, and you need something, I’m always here.  If you need to be comforted, then why don’t you just-- After breakfast, if you were upset, why didn’t you just ask me to come upstairs with you?  And I could’ve helped you feel better. I would’ve helped you. I’m trying so hard to be here for here you.”

“It’s not like that.  It’s not something someone else can do for me, I need to do it myself.  And it’s not,” Timothée hesitates, knowing this will hurt Armie. But Armie wants honestly.  “It just doesn’t work as well. Having you being here and comforting me, it’s not enough. Nothing makes me feel the same way that... the emptiness, I guess, does.  I  _ need  _ to not eat.  I know it’s bad, but I need it.  That’s just who I am.”

“It’s not,” Armie says.  “I know you, that’s not who you are, you’re just sick.  It’s an illness, it’s not you.”

“It’s me,” Timothée says.  It’s important to him that Armie understands this, because something it feels empowering.  “It’s like. I know who I am not. I know what I can do. What I’m capable of, what my limits are.  I never knew that before. It’s not a choice, you know? In the same way that being like, I dunno. Funny.  Or empathetic, or extroverted, or whatever. They’re not choices, they’re just who you are.”  
“It _is_ a choice, though.  When you throw up, that’s a choice.  That’s a decision you’re making.”

“It doesn’t feel like a choice.  In the same way that breathing doesn’t feel like a choice.  It’s just something that happens, and even you try, you can’t hold it back.”

“But I thought you said this whole thing is about you doing it.  You being in control. How are you in control if this isn’t a choice?”

Tiomthée grimaces, looks away.  He didn’t open up to Armie just so that Armie could start ridiculing the whole thing.  “Whatever.”

“No, I’m not--Timmy, I’m not judging you, I’m just trying to understand.”

“You’re never gonna understand,” Timothée says, angry suddenly.  He’s had enough of being verbally poked and prodded at. Armie’s pushed too far.  “I don’t even understand. It’s not me, it’s something else.”

“Okay.  I just want to know everything I can so that I can help you.”

_ You can’t help me,  _ Timothée wants to say, but he doesn’t, because he doesn’t want Armie to leave him.  So he stands up. “I’ve explained it as much as I can. There’s nothing else I can say about this.”

Armie grabs Timothée by the wrist, and Timothée tries not to think about being pinned down against the bed, bleeding on the sheets, choking around--

Fuck.

But he manages not to pull his hand away.  He just goes stiff. Armie seems to notice this too, because he drops his wrist.

“What about what happened in Paris?” Armie asks.  “To your neck. Can you tell me about that?”

“Someone hurt me.  What more do you need to know?”

Armie looks heartbroken, having the openness suddenly yanked away from him.  “I--Timmy, don’t you want to talk about it? It’s clearly affecting you, you can’t just bottle it up forever.”

Timothée shrugs.  “I don’t want to talk anymore today.”

God, is this what therapy is going to be like?  Probably even worse. All those probing questions, a doctor who’s dealt with enough people like Timothée that they can see through the lies.  Timothée won’t be able to handle that.

“Okay.  Um. Thank you for being honest, and.”  He holds his arms out, clearly wanting to hug Timothée, but Timothée turns away.  He’s glad that he can’t see Armie’s face when he does that.

Timothée starts to walk away, unsure where he’s going.  There’s not really anywhere to disappear to in a studio apartment, so he just climbs into his bed and rolls over.

“I’m not going to tell your parents that you threw up,” Armie says.  “Because I don’t think it would be helpful for you to be hospitalized right now.”

Armie can give any reason he wants, but Timothée knows what he’s doing: he’s rewarding Timothée for opening up.   _ Here’s the carrot, pony.  Just disclose the details of the time you were pinned down against a bed and choked and fucked while you were too high to do anything about it, and I’ll hand it over. _

“Because it wasn’t helpful when you were hospitalized in Paris, and I want to give you the opportunity to start therapy before we make any drastic changes,” Armie continues.  Timothée rolls his eyes. “But, I want you to know that if it comes to it, I’m not against having you hospitalized again. If you need to be on a feeding tube, you need to be on a feeding tube.  I know you’ll hate me for it, but you need to get nutrients somehow.”

“Okay,” Timothée says.  “Whatever.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO IM ALIVE SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG

Two days later, Timothée has his first appointment at the eating disorder clinic.His mom accompanies him, rubs his back on the subway ride over, occasionally muttering, “just be honest with her, okay?She’s dealt with this type of thing before, she’s not going to freak out.And I’m sure she’ll be able to tell if you’re lying.” 

Armie wanted to go too, but Timothée told him it’s not necessary.He’d been sweet and affectionate since Timothée opened up to him, and it made Timothée happy.He was glad that Armie understood a little bit better, was glad that Armie was pleased with him.But Timothée just wanted to be with his mom for this, and he felt that she deserves to be the one to go.He refused to let his parents take care of him for so long, and he still refuses to move in with them. The least he can do is let his mom come to the doctor’s appointments.

The plan is to meet with a therapist and a dietician on the same day.First, he has to go and get blood drawn and be weighed and measured.Then, while the doctors look at his medical information, he will talk to the therapist. Then he sees the dietician again to see the plan she’s made for him.This all happens in one building, all of it connected, specially designed for people who don’t mind torturing their bodies to lose weight.

Most of the people in the waiting room are women who look like they’re in their early twenties or late teens, but some of them look a little younger or older.Timothée is the only man there, though, and it makes him uncomfortable, as if he’s done something wrong, or is supposed to be in a different place.

The blood test is easy enough: he sits in a chair and holds out his arm.They measure and weigh him.They have him face away from so that he can’t see his weight, which seems pointless given how many times a day he weighs himself.His weight doesn’t shock him, but it seems to shock his mom.He knows he’s underweight, but he’s pretty much always been technically underweight, even before any of this started.It’s just his build.He’s little, small-boned, coated with barely any muscle.It makes sense that with that as a starting point, his weight now would be so low.But his mom is in tears.

In the waiting room at the therapist’s office, he fills out a questionnaire.The questions are fairly straight forward. _On how many of the past 28 days... Have you been deliberately trying to limit the amount of food you eat to influence your shape or weight (whether or not you have succeeded)?_ Everyday. _Have you gone for long periods of time (8 waking hours or more) without eating anything at all in order to influence your shape or weight?_ Everyday. _Have you tried to follow definite rules regarding your eating (for example, a calorie limit) in order to influence your shape or weight (whether or not you have succeeded)?_ Everyday. _Has thinking about food, eating or calories made it very difficult to concentrate on things you are interested in (for example, working, following a conversation, or reading)?_ Everyday. _Have you had a definite fear of losing control over eating?_ Everyday.

Some are more confusing.One asks specifically about wanting a flat stomach, and Timothée doesn’t know what to answer.This was never about having a flat stomach, but he’d be pretty disgusted with himself if he no longer had one.Somewhat arbitrarily, he circles 13-15 days.

It asks questions about restriction, it asks questions about eating “unusually large amounts of food,” it asks questions about making himself throw up or using laxatives.He does his best to be honest, but there are some questions he genuinely doesn’t know how to answer.And when it’s put down on paper like this, with just a number that he can circle, it looks so much worse than it is.There’s no space for him to explain.Obviously this all sounds awful when he’s saying that _everyday_ he has a desire to have a completely empty stomach, but it’s taken out of context.This whole thing is ridiculous.

His mother is filling out a form, too, about her perception of his behavior.He wonders what she puts down.She probably makes it seem worse than it is.It probably _does_ seem worse than it is, because, really, it could be a lot worse.

He meets his therapist, alone.Her name is Stephanie, and she asks a lot of questions that are basically the same as what’s on the questionnaire.It’s better, though, because he can explain everything himself.

“What brings you here today?” she asks.

“Um,” he says, shifting around in his seat, heart pounding.“Everyone thinks I have an eating disorder, so.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“My parents, my sister.My, um....” He tries to think of how to describe Armie. “Friend.Roommate, I guess.”

“And what do you think?”

“What do I think about what?”

“About if you have an eating disorder.”

He shrugs.“I know that what I do isn’t normal.And I know it’s not the way it’s always been.But I don’t... I don’t think it’s necessarily an eating disorder.Like, yeah, it’s weird, but that doesn’t mean that I have an illness or something.I feel like I’m in in control of it, like I could stop if I wanted to.I just... don’t really want to.”

“So then why are you here, if you have no interest in stopping?”

“I guess to make my family happy.And my friend.They all seem... pretty stressed about this whole thing.I felt guilty.”

She nods, jots something down on her pad.Timothée resists the urge to ask what she’s writing.

“So, tell me about your eating habits.”

“Okay, so, I was shooting this movie where I was playing a meth addict,” Timothée starts, because he feels it’s important to give context.“And I had to lose weight for that, obviously, because he’s supposed to be unhealthy.So I ate a lot less and lost some weight.”

“And are you still shooting the movie?”

“No.I haven’t gained the weight back, because, um.Well, I just haven’t yet.I will.”

“Have your eating habits changed since you’ve stopped filming, then?”

_Honesty_ , Timothée reminds himself.That’s what makes people happy.“No, not really.”

“Why not?”

Timothée smirks, stares at the ground.“I don’t know.”

Stephanie smiles at him.“You’re gonna have to give me a little more to work with than that.”

“I guess it just... feels natural at this point.I got so used to it, so now eating a lot feels wrong.”

“What about it feels wrong?”

Timothée takes a second, thinking about it.“I guess because at this point, every time I eat, it’s because someone is making me.It’s someone else’s choice.They’re... forcing me to do something that affects my own body, and I feel like what happens to my body should be my choice.And they’re taking that choice away from me.”

She nods, writes something down, as if he’s an animal in a lab experiment.“Why do people have to force you to eat?Why don’t you want to do it on your own?”

Timothée huffs, annoyed.“Didn’t I answer all of this on the questionnaire?”

“Sort of.But that was multiple choice--it’s better to hear this in your own words.”

“So then what was the point of filling that out?”

“It gives me a better idea of what I’m working with, where our starting point will be.And it’s helpful to see how you view your behavior versus how other people around you view it.”

Timothée sees right through it.“You think I lied on the questionnaire.”

“No, I don’t think that you in particular lied.But plenty of people have lied, so it’s good to get multiple perspectives. It’s something we like to have all of our patients do, when it’s possible.”

Timothée exhales, looks away.Thinks about his mother waiting in the lobby, Armie waiting at home.What are they doing to pass the time?

“Timothée,” Stephanie says, making a point to try to pronounce it correctly, but it sounds stupid coming out of the mouth of someone who clearly doesn’t speak french.She doesn’t get the Ts right.Americans never do.

“You don’t have to pretend to be french.Just say Timothy.Or Timmy.”He’s being an asshole, and he knows it, but he wants out.He wants Stephanie to get exasperated, wants her to tell his mom, _this is a waste of time, he’s too far gone_.

“Alright.Timmy.Why don’t you eat on your own?Why do you have to be forced?”

“I had to lose weight for the role.Eating would make me stop losing weight.”

“But filming is over, isn’t it?So what about right now?”

He looks away, his eyes falling onto the armrest of her seat. “Well, after filming ended, I was so used to not eating at that point that eating felt... unnatural.I guess I got attached to the feeling of not eating, and to being really skinny.Even--” He clears his throat.“Even if it hurts, I still like it.”

“What do you like about it?”

_Oh my god_ , he thinks, _she’s like a child who just learned the word “why.”_

“It’s just... comforting.It’s something that I know that I can do right.A goal that I can reach.And it makes me feel like I’m... in charge of something.I don’t really feel that way with anything else so it’s nice to have this.”

Stephanie nods, like this was the answer she was expecting, and he’s suddenly inexplicably angry at her, at the way she keeps prodding at him until he gives her the most overly personal answer he can muster, at the way she seems to know what those answers will be before he can even answer them.At the notion that there is _anyone_ else who can understand the way his mind works right now, that there are other people going through what he’s going through.That he’s just one of the masses of people who Have An Eating Disorder, that there’s nothing unique about his situation, nothing unique about him.

What he has is not an eating disorder, he’s sure of it.It’s more than that and less than that all at once.He’s not the same as anyone else just because they’re both too skinny.

But Stephanie doesn’t seem to think so, because she diagnoses him with anorexia nervosa at the end of the session.She doesn’t care about the context, she lets him explain himself but it doesn’t seem to make a difference to her; all she sees is some skinny, pitiful boy who can barely walk on his own, but whose business is that but his own?It’s his body, his health.He’s an adult.It’s his choice.

To be clear, what he is diagnosed with is not anorexia with any sort of special sub type.Not anorexia with a binge-purge subtype, which was the diagnosis he was sort of expecting.Just anorexia.

After the therapy session, he receives a few pamphlets on anorexia, as well as a diet plan from the dietician.It’s a packet of paper that outlines the pace at which he should expect to gain weight (he has to stop himself from scoffing) and how he should slowly reintroduce foods back into his diet.Apparently, after months of starvation, there are certain things that his body has completely forgotten how to process, like meat and dairy and anything too spicy.He hands the diet plan and pamphlets to his mother without looking at them.

On the subway ride home, while she flips through the packets, Timothée says, “I’m pretty sure Stephanie is wrong.”

“Hmm?”

“About me being...” He’s in public; he switches to french.“À propos de moi étant anorexique.”

“Oh.Sweetheart, I don’t think so.”

“Je _sais_ que je ne suis pas anorexique,” he insists, I _know_ that I’m not anorexic.

She stares at him. “She’s the doctor.”

“Vous avez dit que si je n'aime pas le thérapeute, je peux en changer. Puis-je passer à un nouveau?”

“Do you not like her, or do you just disagree with her diagnosis?”

“Can you please speak in French?This is private.”

“No one’s listening.And do you think that we’re the only people in New York that speak french?”

He huffs.“I don’t like how she kept asking questions.”

His mom smiles, like this amuses her.“You’re never gonna find a therapist that doesn’t ask questions, Timmy.”

Timothée sighs, looks down.Can’t think of anything else to say.

“Listen, give it some time.If you still don’t like her after a few more sessions, then we can look into switching okay?I just want you to give her a proper chance.If you’re just constantly bouncing around from therapist to therapist, you won’t make any progress.”

“Fine,” he mumbles, turning his head to look out the window.There’s nothing there but the grey walls of the subway tunnels and his own reflection.He lets a few moments pass in silence like that, and then, mostly as a distraction, and because he seems to be in the habit of revealing things these days, he says: “Mom, can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“Je pense que je suis amoureux d'Armie.”

His mom is quiet for a long time.He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t watch her reaction.Finally, she says, “Yeah, I thought you might be.”

He snaps his head to look at her.“How?”

“The way you look at him.Act around him.Talk about him.How you’d rather stay with him than us right now.”

“It’s obvious?”

She smiles warmly, pushes one of his curls behind his ears.“Only because I’m your mom.”

“Do you think he knows?”

She laughs.“Oh, he’s totally clueless.”

Of course he is.People tend not to realize if someone is interested in them if they’re not just as interested.Armie just views him as a little brother, why would he ever wonder if Timmy wanted more?He’d probably never even thought of the possibility of there even being more.

“I think,” his mom says, “And I might be wrong.But I think that he might feel the same way.”

This time, it’s Timothée who laughs.“No way.He’s married.”

“I didn’t say he’d ever act on it.But, the way he acts around you... it’s so caring, it’s like--”

“Like I’m his _little brother_.That’s what he told me.”

She looks at him, sly.“And you don’t think he may have been compensating for something when he said that?”

This concept is confusing.

“Whatever,” Timothée says.“Like you said, he’d never act on it, even if there was something there.And there’s not something there, anyway, so I really shouldn’t get my hopes up.I should just... get over it.”

“Is that why you’re living with him?”

He sputters.“I’m not--we’re not--I’m not _living with him_.He just showed up.And it’s not like you’d let me live alone anyway, and I’d rather live with him than move back in with my parents like I’m some fucking deadbeat who can’t get a job, okay, I’m an adult, and that’s the only reason I’m living with him.I didn’t even _want him here_.”

She puts her hands up in surrender.“Alright, Timmy, I wasn’t trying to start a fight.”

Timothée sighs, looks down at his lap. _I shouldn’t have said anything._

***

Armie’s waiting for him when he gets home.“What did they say?” he asks, standing up from the couch.

Timothée shrugs.Shoves the pamphlets into Armie’s hand, pushes past him and walks to--

Nowhere.There is nowhere to go.He is in a studio apartment.The only place to walk to is his fucking bathroom.And the fire escape.

He opens the window.

“What are you doing?” Armie asks.

“Going outside,” Timothée mumbles, climbing through the window and taking a seat.“Giving you guys space to talk about me behind my back.”

“We’re not--” Armie’s talking, but Timothée doesn’t care.He closes the window and pulls out his phone trying to find some way to entertain himself while they discuss him and what the next steps are.When he looks up, they’re both standing completely still, staring at him.He flips his hand, trying to wave them off.Whatever this recovery business is, he wants nothing to do with it.They start talking, and he goes back to his phone. 

When instagram gets dull, and the itching in his brain becomes too intense to ignore, he hesitantly googles anorexia.Clicks on the first page that comes up, skims through it.Most of the information is uninteresting, stuff he basically already knew.But there’s one sentence, one phrase, really, that seems to burn as he reads it.

_ The highest mortality rate of any mental illness. _

He puts the phone down.That’s not him.It can’t be.

***

His mom sticks around for dinner, and his dad comes by too.That’s pretty much the way it is everyday, now; he either goes to his parent’s apartment or they come here.Either way, he sees them everyday.No one wants to leave him to his own devices anymore.

Everyone watches TV while Timothée’s father looks through the meal plan, trying to figure out what he can cook.He looks up, a haunted expression on his face. “So all the stuff we were cooking for you was hurting you?”

Timothée looks up at him.“I tried to tell you, it was giving me stomach aches.And diarrhea.”

His father blinks.“I know, I just... I thought you were lying so you wouldn’t have to eat.”

Timothée laughs, a short, humorless thing.“Yeah, well, no one believes anything I say anymore, so.”

“Honestly, Timmy,” Armie’s voice is soft, gentle, like he’s trying not to upset him.“Can you blame us?”

Timothée gives him an pseudo-sweet smile.“Thank you for your opinion; I didn’t ask.”

Armie opens his mouth, clearly, shocked, but ultimately just looks away.Since Timothée’s conversation with his mom, he’s been angry at Armie for some reason that he can’t quite discern, and, more than anything, he wants to be left alone.The day has been overwhelming: too many questions, too many confessions, too much going on.He doesn’t want to sit around a table with his parents and Armie while they force him to eat.That’s upsetting enough on a normal day; but today, he knows it’s going to set him over the edge.

His dad ultimately prepares what is possibly the most boring meal of all time: broth with noodles, and steamed vegetables.It looks tasteless, and, he notices with surprise, very low calorie.

“This is all I have to eat?” he asks.

“For tonight, yes.You work your way back to normal sized portions, for now, it’s small ones until your body adjusts to it.Didn’t you read what the diet plan said?”

“Um.No.Not really.”

Armie snorts.

Timothée looks up at his dad.“This isn’t bad at all.”

“Great,” he says.“Then eat it.”

Oh.

Timothée looks down at his food, takes a deep breath. _You are not anorexic, the diagnosis was wrong_ , he thinks to himself. _Show them that and they’ll leave you alone_.He does his best to shut down his thoughts, to not resist this.It’s just one meal.Just one meal, if he just eats this without complaint maybe they won’t be so hard on him.Maybe they’ll trust him a little bit more.He takes a bite, looking forward to people’s reactions.It’s the first time he’s eaten without complaint, without fighting it.They’ll be so pleased.

But when he looks up, no one’s even looking at him.They’re just eating their own food.

He takes a deep breath.They were never happy with just one bite, anyway.He’ll have to get through quite a bit before they say anything.So he begins to eat again, barely pausing between bites, not looking up.He tries to soothe the part of his brain that’s protesting, trying to tell it, if I eat a little bit right now, I won’t have to eat later.Soon enough, he’s nearly finished.

“Timmy?Timmy?” There’s a hand on his shoulder.

Timothée jerks to attention.“Yeah?”

“Did you hear what I said?” his mother asks.

“No.”

“I said I was thinking about it, and I don’t think I’m happy with this current situation.”

“This... situation?”

“I really think that you should be living with us instead of with Armie.”

“What?” Armie says, at the same time that Timothée says, “I’m not living with you guys.”

“Alright, just.Hear me out, okay?You two are not family.You’re not--”

“I consider Timmy family, just because we’re not blood related doesn’t mean that--”

“Just let me talk.You’re not family.You’re not... anything but friends.And Armie, you have your own family.You have work.A life back in LA.You could leave to return to those responsibilities at any time, and you wouldn’t even be doing anything wrong by doing it.”

Armie looks insulted.“I wouldn’t just _abandon Timmy_ , this is ridiculous.I came here to help take care of him, I’m not just gonna up and leave.”

“You’re telling me that if something happened to your kids or your wife that you wouldn’t go home?You have a family, you--”

“I _spoke_ to Elizabeth about this, and she’s fine with it.It’s not like I don’t have a plan here.”

“What’s the plan?Because this isn’t something that’s just going to get better in a couple weeks; this is going to be a long process.And I don’t want Timmy getting used to you being here and being reliant on you, and then you leaving.”

“I’m not a child,” Timothée interjects.

Everyone at the table looks at him for a moment, and then returns to their conversation.

“Maybe you should go home.You have your own children to take care of, let me take care of mine.”

“If Timothée wants me to leave, I’ll leave.Timmy?”

Timothée sighs, hating this position he’s been put into.“No.But.Leave if you want, I guess.”

“Armie, listen, I’m not saying this to be insulting.I’m just trying to do my job as a mom.I know that Timmy is my number one priority, but he’s not yours, your kids are your number one priority.Timothée cannot rely on you.You should be home.You have kids, you have a responsibility to them.It’s not right to just leave them, and, as a parent, it’s not something I would have ever done.”

“Yeah, well sorry if I don’t take your parenting advice considering how your kid turned out,” Armie spits.

The entire table goes silent, stunned.Timothée is suddenly holding back tears--he had done so well, eaten his entire meal without complain, and still, he was nothing more than a fuck-up.He thought everyone would be happy with him.He thought Armie would be _proud of him_.How fucking stupid.

Armie speaks first, places a hand on Timothée’s wrist.“I didn’t mean that as an insult towards you.”

Timothée huffs.“Yeah?Then how did you mean it?”

“Timmy...”

“Whatever.I’m done.I ate everything on my plate, if anyone fucking cares,” Timothée says, standing up.He looks at his mom.“Whether or not Armie is here, I’m not moving back in with you and dad.I’m not a child.I’m gonna take a shower now.”

His mom stops him with a hand on his hip as he walks.“Compte tenu de ce que tu m'a dit aujourd'hui, je ne pense pas que tu devrais rester avec lui. Ce n'est pas bon pour toi.”

“Rentre chez toi, maman,” he whispers, and retreats into the bathroom.

“Wait, Timmy, you’re not--” Armie starts.

“I’m not going to throw up, I just want a shower and some fucking privacy, because I don’t particularly feel like being around you guys at the moment.”

Timothée slams the bathroom door shut, knowing that he won’t be able to get out another word without crying.He sniffles as he takes off his clothes, and only when he is in the shower and the running water drowns out the noise does he allow himself to sob.

Never in his life has he felt so overwhelmed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> changed my url on tumblr to kingtimmy if anyone is interested in following me :)


	14. Chapter 14

“Timmy, look, I’m sorry,” Armie says, the moment Timothée steps out of the bathroom.  

The apartment is stale and quiet, save for the sound of traffic outside.  The sound of an ambulance siren rises and falls, then disappears. Both of Timothée’s parents have left, leaving behind a stiffness that sticks to the apartment like a wet pair of socks. Timothée’s towel hangs loose around his hips—he doesn’t care about hiding his frail body, not anymore, not after Armie’s comment.  He’s just a fuck-up, covering up his body won’t change Armie’s mind on that.

He’s almost too tired to care.  Now that dinner is over and there’s nothing left to do today,  he can finally have some fucking privacy and quiet, go to sleep.  Except, well.

Except Armie won’t shut the fuck up.

“Timmy, come on, just look at me.”

“I’m changing,” Timothée mumbles, pulling on a tee shirt.  He drops his towel, lets Armie look at his ass, because, at this point, just like, fucking  _ whatever.   _ There’s no point in trying to impress him.  He pulls on a pair of boxers. Turns around, raises his arms up as if to say,  _ what? _

Armie has his hands in his hair, pulling tight.  “I’m sorry. I wish I hadn’t said that. I’m sorry.”

“Whatever.”

“Please, just.  It was such a stupid thing to say, I wasn’t thinking.”

He wasn’t thinking.  He didn’t have to come up with that insult, it formed mindlessly.  Which means that, deep down, that’s what Armie believes about him. He clenches his fist.  Considers yelling at Armie, considers kicking him out. Doesn’t have the energy for it. “I’m going to bed.”

“Timmy, come on.  I’m sorry.”

“Thank you for making the most exhausting and overwhelming day in my life even more exhausting and overwhelming.  Really great to have such an awesome support system. Tell my mom that too, next time we’re all together and you guys decide to ignore that I’m in the room while you talk about me.  I’m going to sleep now. Goodnight.”

Armie stands there, completely still, gaping.

Timothée crawls into bed, closes his eyes.  “You can sleep on the couch tonight,” he adds, shivering the way he always does after a shower, after going outside, after doing anything.  Always cold. Always in pain.

_ Why do you do this?   _ he thinks.   _ Why don’t you just say fuck it all and decide to stop hurting all the time? _

He thinks about it, ponders it, comes up with some potential answers.

_ A) Because I can’t. _ _  
_

_ B) Because I don’t want to. _

_ C) All of the above _

_ D) None of the above _

Either C or D.  Maybe both. He squeezes his eyes shut, shuddering, and listens to the sounds Armie makes as he putters around the apartment.  Footsteps, typing on a laptop. The turning of some pages. Timothée keeps still, pretending to be asleep.

After maybe thirty minutes, there’s a weight on the side of the bed.  Timothée’s about to open his eyes, about to spit  _ I told you to sleep on the couch,  _ but Armie doesn’t get under the blankets.  Instead, he gingerly takes Timothée’s hands and begins to unwrap the bandages from them.  Timothée has to put a lot of effort into remaining completely limp, not lifting his hand or moving it in Armie’s at all.  It feels strange, to be completely deadweight in someone else’s hands. Like floating.

The flayed skin has gotten a bit better, and the bruises on his neck have started to fade slightly.  He has a feeling that he won’t feel completely comfortable until the creamy white fully emerges from the purple and blue.

When the bandages are unwrapped, Armie begins to apply the antibiotic ointment, gently running his fingertips across Timothée’s palms.  Timothée is supposed to do this every night until the cuts are healed, but he forgot tonight. Armie’s fingers are soft and cool as they brush gently against his palms, soothing the inflamed flesh.  When Armie is finished, he wraps his hands back up. He lingers holding Timothée’s hand in his own.

Then, he’s suddenly gone.  But he returns, Timothée realizes as there’s another layer of blankets draped over him.  The throw from the couch—Armie’s only blanket for the night. Timothée’s tempted to open his eyes, tell him that nevermind, he can sleep in the bed, but he doesn’t.  He forces himself to hold his ground.

It’s not long before he’s asleep.

***

Timothée wakes before Armie.  He gets up slow, working carefully around the foggy, hollow feeling in his head, and makes some coffee.  His hands shake, and he drops his mug on the floor. It breaks, hot coffee splashing onto his legs.

“Fuck.”  The word comes out before he can stop it.

“Timmy?” Armie mumbles from over on the couch.  The sound must have woken him.

“Yeah,” Timmy says, trying to suppress his irritation. He crouches, grabbing the broken shards off the floor.

“What happened?”

“Dropped my coffee.”

Before he knows it, Armie is standing in the kitchen, looking down at the mess.  “Careful with the glass.”

“No shit.”

The mug didn’t really shatter, just broke into five small parts, so Armie and Timothée just pick them up with their hands instead of using a vacuum.  Then, Timothée grabs some paper towels and wipes the coffee off his legs, off the floor.

“Did you burn yourself badly?” Armie asks.

“Not really.”

“Is there any coffee left?”

“I didn’t make a pot, I used the keurig.”

“Millennials,” Armie says, smiling and leaning back against the counter.

Timothée rolls his eyes.  “You’re a millennial too,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, but, apparently I have the mind of a baby boomer.”

“What?”

“Meaning I’m stupid, and an asshole.”

“Oh.”

Armie stands up straight, his expression turning serious.  “Look. I’m really sorry about last night. What I said was completely out of line.  It wasn’t okay, and I’m not gonna try to make excuses. I’m sorry.” The words are said without any stutters or backtracking, not a single  _ um.   _ An adequate pause between each sentence, as if they were a carefully prepared high school class presentation rather than an apology.

“Is that what you think of me?” Timothée asks, the fragmented mug left forgotten on the counter.  “That my parents are fuck-ups, that they should be ashamed of me? That I’m a fuck-up?”

Armie shakes his head vehemently.  “No.  _ No.   _ You’re not—“

“Because I don’t want you to apologize for telling the truth.  If you meant what you said, I’d rather know it than get a fake apology.”

“It’s not a fake apology.  I didn’t mean what I said. You’re not a fuck-up.  You’re just sick, and you’ll get better. I didn’t mean to insult you.  I was angry, it just came out. You know how I get when I’m mad. ”

“Because that’s not what I am.  My parents are—my parents are like, proud of me, okay?  I’m at NYU, that’s a good school, I know I dropped out of Columbia, but still.  And I know that my career isn’t like. It’s not like yours, but I work really hard, and I—maybe things will get there, one day.  Like, the stuff that I’ve been filming the past couple years, I felt like they were good, maybe people will like them, and. I’m not.  I work really hard. I know that things this summer have gotten fucked up but my parents aren’t  _ bad  _ parents.  It’s not like I’m, like, a bad kid.”

Armie’s nodding vehemently, waiting for Timothée to finish.  “I know. You’re not a fuck-up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I just—“ he looks down, brings his hand to his face, shakes his head.  His entire body is vibrating. “I keep fucking this up. Just everyday, I feel like I’m making things worse. Maybe your mom is right.”

“She’s not,” Timothée says.  “She doesn’t know what she’s doing any more than you do.  And even if you left, I wouldn’t move in with her, so… I guess it’s probably better that I’m with you than alone.”

“Is it?” Armie asks.  He shuffles over to the living room area and sits down on the back of the couch, buries his face in his hands.  Timothée’s known Armie long enough to know what self-loathing looks like on him, and this looks something like it, but it’s not quite the same.  Timothée can’t place it.

“I… I think so.  But, what do I know?  No one cares what I have to say anyway.”

Armie’s face drops, affection and sadness lacing his features.  “Come here,” he says, opening his arms, and Timothée cant stop himself.  It’s like there’s some type of magnet, some type of cord between them, pulling him closer, his feet just following so that he doesn’t fall forward.  He’s in Armie’s arms. Armie’s never really squeezed him tight in a hug, always held him so tenderly, as if he’s afraid to hurt him. As if Timothée is fragile, as if he’s important enough to handle with care.  Timothée loves it. It makes him feel like he’s worth something.

“I’m so sorry,” Armie says.  “I really am. I never should’ve said that.  It was really horrible.”

Timothée’s tempted to just melt into Armie’s embrace, tell him,  _ It’s okay,  _ but it really wasn’t okay.  So he holds his ground. “It was pretty horrible,” Timothée says, though it feels uncomfortable and strange to say something like that.  “I was crying in the shower.”

“I know,” Armie says, letting his head fall down against Timothée’s shoulder.  “I heard you.”

Timothée doesn’t say anything.

Armie pulls out of the hug, looks at Timothée.  “I’m not trying to make excuses. But. Can I just explain something?”

Timothée nods.

“I know that this is so much harder for you than it is for anyone else.  I know that it must be hell, and that none of us  _ really  _ understand what it’s like.  But it’s hard for everyone else too.  It’s hard for your parents, for Pauline… for me.  It’s really awful, watching you go through this. And I guess I’ve just been… looking for someone to blame.  And at first I blamed you. That’s why I yelled at you like I did when you were in the hospital. And why I got so mad when you threw up at your parent’s place.  And then when you’re mom was saying that you shouldn’t be staying with me, that I would just leave you, I got defensive, and then I wanted to blame her. But it’s not her fault.”

“It’s not.  It’s my fault,” Timothée says.

“No,” Armie shakes his head, staring at Timothée morbidly.  “No, it’s my fault.”

Timothée jolts.  “What?”

“It’s my fault.  I’ve been thinking about it, and I realized it’s my fault.”

“No it’s not.”

“No, Timmy, listen.”  Armie stares at him intently, his face serious, never breaking eye contact.  “Do you remember when you called me, back when you were still filming? And we ended up fighting and then we didn’t talk for two weeks?”

Timothée nods.  It seems so long ago now.

“You  _ called me.   _ You told me that you thought that the movie was killing you.  You were—“ his voice breaks. He clears his throat. “You were trying to tell me what was going on, and I didn’t listen.”

“That wasn’t—Armie,” Timothée says, feeling the blood rush through his ears.  This is the exact opposite of what he’s upset with Armie for. “I didn’t really even tell you what was going on, how could you have—“

“I should’ve known something was up.  I shouldn’t have just let you hang up on me and then wait for you to call me again.  I should’ve called you first. That was so early. If I had just… If I had just done something then, it never would’ve gotten this bad.”

“Armie…”

Armie shakes his head vehemently.  There are tears in his eyes. “You were trying to ask for help.  And I missed it.”

“No.  Armie.  It’s not your fault.  It’s not anyone’s fault, it just happened, okay?  If anything, it’s my fault that I let it go on for so long without telling anyone.  When I called you, I didn’t even know what I wanted from you, so how were you supposed to know?  I wasn’t asking for help, I wouldn’t have accepted help. I guess I just wanted to vent.”

“But then I  _ lectured you  _ and--”

“Armie.  Stop it. You did the best you could have done.  You dropped everything to come to New York when I called you.  And you’re here now. And you promised you wouldn’t leave until I’m okay.”

Armie shakes his head, closes his eyes.  “I just have no idea what I’m doing,” he exhales.

“Yeah, you really don’t,” Timothée teases, trying to get Armie to laugh.  When Armie doesn’t, Timothée pokes at his ribs a few times until he cracks a smile.

Armie sighs, and Timothée realizes that the smile wasn’t genuine, was just for his benefit.  

“It’s not really funny, Timmy.  This is a... delicate situation.  We can’t afford to fuck it up anymore.”

“And we won’t.  Listen, you’re doing everything you can.  You and my parents, you got me to go to therapy--to get help from someone who  _ does  _ know what she’s doing.  And you forced me to stop isolating myself.  And yeah, it’s not perfect, but it’s something.”

“What if  _ something  _ isn’t good enough?”

“It is.”

“It isn’t.  This can’t be slow, with all these fuck-ups.  Because... if it takes too long...” Armie trails off, dropping his eyes to the ground, fiddling with his fingers.

“What?”

Armie looks up at him, eyes wet.  “What if you die?”

Timothée blinks.  “I won’t die.”

“You could.”

“I’m not gonna let it get out of control again.  I won’t die.”

“It’s possible.”   


Timothée attacks Armie with a hug, knocking him into the back of the couch.  Holds him tight, squeezing him as hard as he can. Armie lets out a quick, sharp exhale, then slowly returns the embrace: one arm around Timothée’s shoulders, one gently cupping the back of his head and resting it against his shoulder.  He presses his nose into Timothée’s hair, inhaling audibly.

“I’m not gonna die,” Timothée whispers.

“What if you do?”

“I won’t.”

“Timmy...”

“I not gonna die.  I won’t let this kill me.  I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little short, but it didn't seem to fit within the context of a longer chapter


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> surprise!

 

Days pass, with Timothée stuck in an endless limbo between wanting to make his parents and Armie happy, and being completely unwilling—unable—to eat normally.He manages to do better than he did before Armie came, but that’s only because now he’s supervised.Looked after.Babysat.

Everyone assures him that’s not what’s going on.Everyone assures him that he’s just being _taken care of_ because he’s _sick_ and they _wouldn’t leave him alone if he had a severe physical illness, so why is this any different?_ But it’s all just a sweet, delicate way to say: we don’t trust you anymore.

And why should they?He’s nothing but a liar, now.

Timothée’s never alone.He’s constantly crowded, every insignificant move catalogued, every meaningless expression examined.Everyone is always waiting, watching for him to combust at any moment, and on the tips of their tongue, always: _are you okay are you okay are you okay are you okay,_ until it becomes nothing more than TV static noise.His only solitude is in the shower. There, he can think.There, his silence isn’t analyzed.

He purges in there, sometimes.Vomits up his dinner, uses his toes to squish the chunks of regurgitated food down the drain.No one will guess.If he’s in here for forty-five minutes, they just assume that he’s freezing, and the warm water helps warm him up.Or that he’s masturbating.

He’s always hated purging.Hates the way it makes his body shake, the way his abdomen clenches around his vacuous stomach.It makes him feel deceptive, irresponsible, like a wanted man skipping town.But he doesn’t always have a choice, when everyone’s making him eat all the time.What else is he supposed to do?

Timothée isn’t sure he can give them what they want.They seem to lack a fundamental understanding of who he is now, and what his values are.They want him to recover, but recovery is not something he can fathom.If you could get yourself to the point where you _needed_ to recover or you’d die, why would you ever stop?You’re successful.You have incredible will-power, incredible discipline.Why would you ever give that up?It’s like turning in a test blank even though you know all the answers, just because you don’t feel like writing them down.It would be so lazy, so weak.

But the way he is so often now—crouching in the shower, shivering underneath the warm water, shaking as he hunches over the drain, he can feel the blood surging through his ear, can feel his heart beat faster than he thinks it did when he tried coke, his stomach tight, his throat scratchy, heart beating in the strangest way. Maybe he’ll collapse, maybe he’ll have to call Armie, and Armie will have to save him, yet again, Armie will have to save him from drowning in three inches of water.And god, maybe that’s just as weak.

So for the sake of Armie, for the sake of his family, and for the sake of his career, he puts in a minimal amount of effort into recovery.He eats once a day, at least.He tries not to throw all of it back up all the time. He knows he has to get this under control, because he doesn’t want end up lying on some sidewalk again, in a pool of his own vomit and blood, calling Armie crying in the middle of the night, expecting him to help him from halfway across the world.Pathetic.

He still doesn’t know if he wants to get better.But when Armie looked at him, eyes filled with tears and quiet, enduring terror, Timothée knew that he couldn’t see that look on his face again.So he lives in an in-between state, because who will he even be if he recovers?For the past several months, losing weight has been his number one priority, the only thing driving him forward, ubiquitous.When that’s gone, what will be left to hold onto?

When Timothée tells his therapist all this, she puts down her pen and looks him in the eye.“Timmy,” she says.“You have two choices.Either you recover, or you die.There’s no in between.There’s no third option.

And he nearly bursts into tears, because it’s the third time in a week that someone’s told him he might die, and this time it’s a healthcare professional, and it’s suddenly feels so fucking real.

Timothée thinks about it on the subway ride home.He thinks of decaying into nothingness, into wasted potential.Deteriorating into nothing more than some typical young actor whose gone insane.Into nothing more than a boy who clawed at his own foundations so hard that they crumbled before he could build anything on them, into some kid who tried so hard to shed his imperfections that he tore and tore at himself until there was nothing left at all.

He thinks about becoming some dead body that nobody finds for weeks, he thinks about becoming whispers among his old classmates, meeting up for lunch after months of lost contact— _Do you remember Timmy?Did you hear what happened to him?_

He thinks of everything he had that he lost, everything he has that he’s losing, and everything he has left to lose.And he knows that he does not want to die.

__

So Timothée decides to get better.Perhaps not all the way better.Stephanie’s words ring in his ears, but he still can’t wrap his head around them.Yes, on the scale from shit-show to recovered, he should probably fall closer to recovery.But does he have to be all the way there?Things just need to be better than they are now.

Timothée kind of thought that once he decided to get better, he just would.That it would be as simple as just deciding to eat.That since deciding to _not_ eat was such a deliberate, active choice, deciding to eat would be the same.A different choice, but one just as powerful, one just has in control.

This turns out not to be the case.

Every meal is a struggle.The first few bites are usually okay. But once his stomach starts to fill up, the feeling of wrongness sets in.He takes a shaky breath and takes another bite.And those are the good days, those are the days where he can even make himself start to eat.And then, the next day, those good days will feel like bad day, because god, he’s getting so fat.What feels like an accomplishment one moment feels like a failure the next.

_Stop being a fucking idiot,_ he thinks to himself. _Just eat your fucking food so Armie doesn’t have a heart attack._

As he eats, he feels like there’s someone else inside of him, screaming at him to stop.That he’s hurting himself.That he’s destroying all his hard work.That he’ll never achieve anything if he isn’t more disciplined, that he should stop giving in to what’s easy, that he needs the pain of an empty stomach to function, that he’s not out of control, but he will be if he keeps eating like this.

Armie always notices.“You can do it,” he says. “It’s okay.”

_He’s just trying make you fat like him,_ Timothée thinks, one day, and is immediately shocked by the thought.Where the fuck did that come from?

Timothée squeezes his eye shut and forces down another bite.His stomach lurches—from the food itself or from the disgust he feels towards himself, he doesn’t know—and he grips the table tight.“I can’t do this,” he whispers to Armie.

“Timmy, stop trying to—” Armie’s voice is hard and exasperated, but he cuts himself off as soon as he actually looks at Timothée.“Hey, it’s okay,” he says, his voice soft.“You’re doing well.I know this is hard.Just keep trying.”

So Timothée does.He finishes his oatmeal, as torturous as it is, and after he’s done, Armie cards his fingers through his curls and murmurs, “Really good, Timmy.”

As if Armie’s a director and they just did the final, best take of a scene.As if Timothée’s done something really huge, something to be proud of.As if eating a bowl of oatmeal is a major achievement. As if Timothée is someone accomplished, someone to be proud of knowing, as if he’s something other than some sick, pathetic, ungainly child that clings too tight and feels too much.

It’s tortuous, and that’s on a good day.Or, what seems like a good day.Because the next day, that good day might seem like a bad day, and what feels like an accomplishment one moment feels like a failure the next.It’s as if there are two people living inside of him, constantly at war with each other, each one telling him that he’s not doing enough.He’s not eating enough, he’s eating too much.He needs to eat more to get better, he needs to eat less to lose weight.No matter which one he follows, he’s failing the other, and more often than not, he’s failing them both.

Armie, on the other hand, seems happy as long as Timothée is trying.When Timothée looked down at a bowl of soup, nearly in tears, fingernails scraping against the table in dread, and whispered, “How?” Armie put his hand on Timothée’s neck, rubbing soft, soothing circle into his hairline and said, “Just one bite at a time.There’s no rush.You can take as long as you need, just one bite a time.”And they sat there, together, as Timothée dragged bite after bite into his mouth, long after the soup had gone cold.

When Timothée finished, he broke down in tears, arms folded over the table and had laid upon them.Armie jumped to action, trying to give Timothée some strange hug from above and behind, rubbing at his arms and saying, “No, no, Timmy, come on, you did you so well.Come on, you’re doing great, it doesn’t matter that it took a while, you’re doing great.”

And Timothée never says anything to him, because how can he explain that he knows he’s doing well, and that he hates himself for it?How will Armie understand that Timothée wants to self-destruct just as much as he wants to get better?

On the days when Timothée outright refuses to eat, Armie becomes a tyrant. A red-faced, bulging eyed, snarling monster, refusing to let Timothée move until food scrapes through his esophagus and droops into his empty stomach.

And then, once Timothée has eaten, Armie returns to himself, returns to the Armie that is kind and gentle, that loves Timothée and never hurts him.And when he hugs Timothée, that sweetness returning, he always seems relieved, as if he was wiggling out of a character after a grueling day of shooting.

__

It’s rare that Timothée wakes before Armie.He normally sleeps for a few hours past Armie does, face plastered against his his chest, arms and legs sprawling out all over the bed.Armie never moves, always lets him sleep as long as he needs.

But today, Timothée wakes up first.He slowly rolls over, careful not to wake Armie, and stands up.He pees, he checks his phone, he pours himself a glass of water.He stares at the wall, he huffs, he’s tries to figure out what to do.

It’s the first time in weeks he’s unsupervised.And maybe it’s the thrill of that freedom, or maybe it’s just curiosity, but Timothée’s eyes fall on Armie’s laptop, and he can’t help himself.Armie’s always on that damn thing anyway.Always googling Timothée’s _condition,_ as if he’s some sort of specimen to be examined and investigated, rather than an actual human.

The computer is password locked, obviously.Timothée guesses. _harper._ Nothing. _Harper._ Nothing. _Harper213._ Nothing.He tries everything he can think of—family member’s names, birthdays, cars.And then, finally, _archie,_ and he’s in.

At first, he just stares at the screen.He doesn’t know what he’s hoping to find, or where to look for it.But he wants to know what Armie’s reading about him, so he opens google chrome and looks through his internet history.

There’s gmail.Youtube videos of dogs.New York Times articles.Google searches for _backpacks._ Google searches for _best comedy tv shows._ Google searches for _recipes without dairy and meat._ Google searches for _how to handle being away from your child._ Google searches for _my friend is anorexic what do i do._ Google searches for _how to help a friend with an eating disorder._

None of the results are very exciting.Most of them are about confronting the friend about the eating disorder rather than helping them once they’re diagnosed.Armie probably would’ve been better off reading these weeks ago.

He clicks on imessages. There’s an unread text from Elizabeth, from a couple hours ago.Timothée clicks on it. A picture of Harper, holding a baby doll and smiling.It’s adorable, and so innocuous that Timothée nearly feels guilty for expecting to find something here.Then he sees a text above it, from Armie.

_I don’t know.he’s doing better, but not great._

Timothée’s heart thuds.Armie’s response is to a text from Elizabeth: _any progress with timmy?_

_Progress with Timmy._ As if he’s some sort of project, some sort of problem to be solved, and if Armie really feels that way, then he can fucking leave.

He scrolls up further, trying to make sense of the texts.He scrolls fast, trying to find the beginning of the conversation, and reads the texts in snippets, out of order.Things like, _I think he’s trying, but I don’t know._

_He fights us on everything._

_I’m scared for him._

_Should he be with his parents?_

_Are you qualified to be doing this?_

_Should he be in an inpatient place?Is he going to die?_

_I have no idea what I’m doing._

_His therapist seems like she knows what she’s doing.He’s been good about going to therapy._

_He looks awful, it’s scary._

_I think I should stay._

_He is trying._

_No, we promised we wouldn’t hospitalize until things got worse, I’m not breaking that promise._

_It sounds really bad.I have a friend whose sister died from this.You can’t fuck around, you have to be on top of it._

_It’s getting better I think.It’s not gonna be fixed over night._

_I don’t know._

_I’m trying my best._

_Is that enough?_

And Timothée doesn’t even have to read the whole conversation to understand: Elizabeth knows everything.Armie told her everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that was a bit shorter than usual, but I wanted to get something up since it's been so long. I've been away from this for a while, and it felt strange going back to it. I really struggled with this chapter, to be honest. It just didn't flow as well as it did when I was working on this fic on a regular basis. So if this isn't up to par with what you guys were expecting, I apologize for that. I tried my best.
> 
> Anywayyyyy sorry it's been forever!! oops!


	16. Chapter 16

Timothée bites his lip.Swipes his tongue along his top teeth.Turns his head to the right, back to center.Exhales.

They’ve been _discussing him._ As if he’s some type of specimen, rather than an actual person who maybe would have liked to be asked permission before you went around and talked in depth about his mental health, thanks.

For a moment, the anger is so searing that it paralyzes him.His toes are frozen in their curled position under his feet, his back is stuck against the chair.The only movement is the trembling of his hands and the tiny, silent movements of his mouth, hollow, jittery things that achieve nothing and say even less.He can barely breath.Who else knows?

“Armie,” he calls.His voice is hoarse, low, louder than the expected.

But it’s not enough for Armie to stir.

Timothée gets up and walks over to the bed.He stands above Armie and tries again: “Armie, wake the fuck up!”  
Armie’s eyes snap open, full of shock and confusion and sleep.He stares for a moment, silent.

“What the fuck, Armie?” Timothée gesturing wildly over towards the laptop.“You’ve been fucking talking to people about this?”

Armie scrambles until he’s sitting up.“What?What?”He’s still half asleep.

“You told her!You told her everything!”

“What are you talking about?”Armie asks, his voice more alert, but just as confused.His legs are still underneath the blankets.

Timothée points at the laptop again.“I saw!I saw the fucking texts, you asshole.”

“You went through my texts?” Armie says, sitting up straighter, his voice rising.

“Don’t try to deflect, you’re the one who--”

“That is a huge invasion of privacy!” Armie says, starting to untangle his legs from the sheets.

“Oh, it’s an invasion of privacy?Well so is going around and sharing my medical information without my fucking permission!”

Armie stands up, and standing so close to Timothée like this, furious like this, his height seems monstrous.“Timmy, she was the one whe called Pauline when you were in Paris anyway, she already knew something was wrong!”

Timothée licks his lips, shakes his head.“Who else knows?” he growls.

“No one,” Armie says, empathic.It’s not enough.

“What if she told someone?” Timothée presses.

“She didn’t.She won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

“How?”

“Because I didn’t tell her so we could gossip about you, I told her because I had to!”

Timothée tugs at his hair, shaking his head.He steps to move somewhere--anyway--but rams right into the couch.He turns around, trying to find some way to release this nervous energy, this anger, but there’s nowhere, nothing.No space, nowhere to walk to.He huffs and turns back to Armie.“You had to?” he spits.“You had to?I’m not one of your fucking kids!”His voice breaks on the last word.He can barely breath.

“Okay, Timmy, you have to calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down.”

“No, let me explain.”

“No!There isn’t--”

“Timmy, stop being a stubborn idiot for one fucking second!”

Timothée sputters for a second, and then falls silent.His breathing is still shaking, and there are tears burning in his eyes.

Armie speaks slowly, purposefully.“Do you really think that I could’ve just told Elizabeth, _hey, I’m leaving you and our two-year-old daughter to go hang out with Timmy indefinitely for no reason?_ Do you honestly think that she would have been okay with me coming here if I hadn’t told her why?”

“You still didn’t have to tell her.You could’ve just said that it was private--” Timothée pauses when Armie scoffs.“Or, or made something up, lied, or something.”

Armie shakes his head.“No, I couldn’t have done that,” he says lowly.“I couldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?”

Armie sighs, looks away.Stays looking away. The silence swells between them until he looks back. “Things with Elizabeth are... are not great right now.I didn’t want to tell you that, because I didn’t want you to worry about that on top of everything else.But yeah, things aren’t great right now, and I’m not gonna make it worse by disappearing with no explanation or by lying to her.”

Timothée stares, still and silent.Things aren’t great.Things could potentially end.There could be an opening for him.

Not that Armie would want him anyway.

And Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with him, seeing a rocky marriage between the parents of a toddler as an opportunity?God, his mind is a horrible place to live.Sick and twisted, immediately jumping how Armie’s misfortune could benefit him. Even now, he’s doing it, because Armie has a wife and young child at home, but where is he?With his delusional, pathetic, feeble best friend, who he feels some sort of obligation to take care of. _Little brother._ He should be with his real family.

“Things... aren’t good?” Timothée asks, his voice quivering.

“No.Timmy, don’t worry about that, that’s my problem, not yours.”

“Well, maybe you should go home, then.”

“No, I should be here, with you.”

Timothée arms hang awkwardly by his sides, feeling heavy, strange.“But Elizabeth is... important.”

“You’re important too.”

“I don’t want to make things worse.”

“You’re not.”

“Well, I’m certainly not making things better.”

Armie puts his hands on Timothée’s shoulders, staring him in the face.“Timmy, look, none of this is your fault, okay?It’s honestly probably a good thing that Elizabeth and I have some space from each other right now.Look, you don’t worry about any of that, okay?”

Timothée breaks out of Armie’s hold and drops onto the bed, laying his head in his hands.“Is she mad at you for being here?”

Armie sits down on the bed next to Timothée.“No.She understands.You’re family, and you’re sick.Look, if her sister got really sick, and Elizabeth left to take care of her, I would understand.”

“But I’m not really family,” he says, looking up.

Armie blinks slowly, gives Timothée a small smile.“She knows how much I love you.”

“Is she mad at me?”

“No.She’s worried about you.She’s scared, actually.She had a friend in college who was anorexic, and she died.”

“She wants me to be in inpatient.”

“She’s just worried.”

“Do you want me to be in inpatient?”

“No,” Armie says immediately.“Look, I only ever though you should be in inpatient if you were really resisting everything.But I can tell you’re really trying.I know it’s not easy for you.”

Timothée clenches his eyes shut, feels traitorous tears squeeze through his lids.“I wish she didn’t know,” he whispers.

“I’m sorry.I should’ve told you I was telling her.But I had to tell her.”

“I wish no one knew.It’s so humiliating.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Armie says.Then, “I wish you hadn’t gone through my computer.”

“I’m sorry,” Timothée says.“It’s just... I feel so paranoid.Everyone is treating me differently.I feel like no one sees me as me anymore.And all anyone ever talks about is food, and me being sick, and I just want things to... go back to normal.”

Armie nods.“Okay.So let’s forget about all this for a little while.Let’s do something fun.The weather’s nice today.”

“Fun?” Timothée asks.He can’t remember the last time he tried to do something fun.Everything he had done the past few months had been in the pursuit of thinness or of comfort.Even all that partying in Paris, even seeing Pauline, it was all just to be thin, to be distracted.To outrun everyone who loved him for as long as he could before he collapsed.

“Yes, fun, you loser,” Armie says, elbowing Timothée in the ribs.The levity in his voice is obviously forced, but Timothée isn’t going to comment on it.He wants his transgression forgotten--who goes looking through people’s texts?A crazy person.And he doesn’t need any more evidence suggesting that that’s what he is.

“What do you wanna do?” Timothée asks.

“You’re the New Yorker.”

So they end up going to the Whitney.Armie goes easy on Timothée at breakfast, lets him get away with only eating a couple bites of a banana, and they’re off.They spend a few hours looking at the art, Timothée showing Armie his favorites of the permanent exhibitions.At one point, Armie insists on taking a picture of Timothée standing in front of one of the paintings.“Don’t you want some artsy shit for your instagram?” he asks.

Armie shows Timothée the photo once it’s taken.“You look good,” he says.

He looks awful, somehow gaunt and enormous all at once.“Let me take one of you, he says, trying to deflect.Armie groans, but obliges.

Afterwards, Armie suggests that they go to the café on the roof, and Timothée panics.He hasn’t eaten out at a restaurant in months and he’s not sure he can handle it.Armie must see the fear on Timothée’s face, because he’s quick to explain.

“We don’t have to get food.Just a drink.”

The waitress won’t serve Timothée alcohol without an ID, so Armie shares his drink with him.He abruptly realizes that it’s the first time he’s had any alcohol since Paris, and the thought irks him.But it’s only half a half a drink, he tells himself, and Armie is here.Nothing will happen to him.They get cheese and crackers for the table and, before he can talk himself out of it, Timothée quickly snatches a cracker from the plate and eats it.

It’s the first time he’s eaten without being prodded, and it pleases Armie just as much as Timothée hoped.

When they finish eating, they walk through Washington Square Park, meandering aimlessly, chatting about nothing.It feels like the first time Timothée has relaxed in weeks.They walk for hours, Armie’s hair turning golden in the warm glow of the late-afternoon sun.It’s fun, it’s untroubled, and it feels slightly like a date.

Armie does force Timothée to eat a proper meal when they get home.“I let it go because I know this morning was rough,” he says.“But you can’t go a whole day without a meal.Come on.”

Timothée tries to hide his disappointment.The afternoon was so lovely, so carefree.To ruin that all with a meal--or rather, the shame and anxiety that accompany one--seems like a crime.

He generally makes it through meals by trying to keep the process as mindless as possible.Think about something else, anything else.That’s his plan when Armie hands him a bowl. Soup with chicken and vegetables.They’re starting to incorporate meat back into his diet.Dairy is still off the table.

He makes it halfway through the bowl before the urge to stop washes over him.“Armie?” he says.

“No.Come on.All you’ve eaten all day is some banana.”

“I had that cracker at lunch.You didn’t even have to ask me.”

Armie smiles.“I know.And that was great, but it’s not a meal.”

Timothée sighs.Most of they day was nice, but he’s still reeling a bit from this morning.“I just don’t think I can handle it today.”

“You can.I know you can.You’re so much stronger than you think you are.”

Timothée looks down at his food.Looks back up.“Armie--”

“Jesus Christ,” Armie mutters.He squeezes the bridge of his nose between his fingers.“Timmy, please.I don’t want to argue with you.Just... just, fucking eat it.Okay?Just eat.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It seemed that simple yesterday when you ate three meals without bitching about it like you are now,” Armie snaps, and Timothée can see the regret as it washes over him.“Sorry.Sorry.I shouldn’t have yelled.I know it’s not easy for you.Look, you can take a break.Go and do something else for a few minutes.But then you have to eat.”

Timothée accepts the deal, and it ends up working out well.By the time he starts eating again, his stomach feel less uncomfortably full, and he feels a little calmer.He eats the rest of his soup, and Armie hugs him.Afterwards, they watch a movie together.

Later, when they lie in bed together, the lights off, the fan whirring, both of them barely conscious, Armie whispers, “Are you still mad at me?”

“No,” Timothée says.“Are you still mad at me?”

“No.”

“Not just for going through your computer.For all the other stuff, too.Are you still mad?”Timothée asks.

“Not anymore,” Armie says.“I understand now.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at kingtimmy.tumblr.com


End file.
